The Soloist by Mark Salzman Read Free Book Online

she could excuse me. Other than that, I would just have to wait out the day.
    So I waited. I counted floor tiles, I read two-year-old magazines about aquarium care, I discovered sections of the newspaper I never knew existed, but mostly I avoided making eye contact with anyone. I didn’t want to get drawn into any of the conversations I was overhearing around me, such as whether or not an Armenian jewelry-store owner was justified in shooting a black child barely thirteen years old who tried to rob the store wielding a toy gun; how uninspiring the candidates for the upcoming local elections were; and why Proposition 126 would be the death of Los Angeles. I didn’t even know what Proposition 126 was. We broke for lunch, then returned again in two hours. By four o’clock I thought I would lose my mind from the boredom, but then my name, along with seventy-four others, was called and we were told to report to Department 135.
    As we entered and took seats in the gallery I was struck byhow unimpressive the courtroom was. The judge’s bench looked as if it was made of cheap veneer paneling, the American flag in the corner was on a flimsy stand and some of the ceiling panels were slightly ajar. The whole atmosphere reminded me of a junior high school auditorium rather than a hall of justice. The custodian instructed sixteen of us to sit in the jury box.
    We had to stand for the judge’s entrance—a distasteful ritual, I thought, in light of what you read every day about lawyers. Judge Davis stood over six feet tall and must have weighed at least three hundred pounds. He had short white hair, several chins and a wide mouth with downturned edges. I was immediately reminded of a magazine article about people who look like their pets; in it was a photo of a large man holding his English bulldog. Judge Davis could easily have joined the two of them in the picture without spoiling the effect. He cleared his throat loudly and called the court to order, introducing the case as
The State of California
vs.
Philip Weber
. The charge was second-degree murder. “This charge,” he warned us, “is not to be taken as evidence of guilt. It is an accusation, not a declaration; all of you are to presume that the defendant is innocent until proven otherwise.”
    I couldn’t believe it: Martin the encyclopedic violin teacher had told me, along with many other things that I hadn’t asked to know, that the chances of my being selected for a big trial were infinitesimal. I should have guessed right then and there that I would somehow end up on a murder trial.
    Instinctively I looked for the place where I thought the accused murderer would have to sit once the trial started, and realized to my horror and fascination that he was already sitting there. He was a young man, in his early twenties or so,pale and thin, and he had an enigmatic smile on his face. He sat straight, with his head erect and shoulders relaxed, watching the judge but seeming oblivious to the rest of us.
    He didn’t look like a murderer at all; he looked like a missionary from Salt Lake City. I became curious to know what he had done. Was it a brutal, shocking murder—did he stab his parents in their bed?—or would it turn out that he was driving too fast and had been involved in a fatal traffic accident?
    My wondering was interrupted when Judge Davis leaned forward onto his elbows and delivered a stern lecture on the importance of jury duty, how seriously we should view our responsibility, and how little patience he had for people who tried to evade that solemn responsibility with frivolous excuses. His voice coming down from that platform had a sobering effect. I think everyone in the courtroom sat up straighter when he spoke. After his speech he riffled through some papers on his desk—he had gigantic, fumbling hands—then looked us over the way I imagine Marine drill instructors examine fresh recruits.
    “This case may take time,” he said warily. “Is that going to