Practically Home
Practically home holds no promise of arrival.
On the first day of jury duty, I get lost. On the second, I find myself in the Sonoma County Fairgrounds, with a couple of hundred others, sitting on folding chairs—it is during the pandemic. The case concerns a freeway crash. I tell the attorneys I am a poet and have a phobia of freeways.
The defendant was DUI. The attorneys ask all potential jurors if we drink. I say I really like my chardonnay.
This is the defendent’s third DUI. Counsel informs the jurors about ankle bracelets and breathalyzers that prevent the car’s start if your breath is tainted. It seems magical, even erotic. On the night of the incident, were any of these in use?
Sonoma is wine country. Tomás works in a winery, testing alcohol content. His co-workers say on the night in question, they did not see him drink.
In the small hours of the morning, Tomás’s girlfriend is waiting for him. At 2:56 am, Tomás sends the text: “Practically home.”
At 3:02 am, Tomás’s Dodge Durango smashes into Jessica’s Toyota Corolla, sending it into the field next to the River Road exit on South 101. The Durango’s electronics put his speed at 100 mph at the moment of impact. It spins to a stop 300 yards away on the median, facing north.
When the Highway Patrol arrives, Tomás says he was practically home. The breathalyzer says he is over the limit.
It looks like Jessica was watching a video on her phone when her Toyota was hit. Twin child seats in back are empty—it’s her twins’ third birthday.
Jessica and Tomás are both 33. Jessica will not get older.
In my thirteen weeks of jury duty, I make three friends: Margaret, Brigitte, and Pauline. I fail to attend deliberation or verdict because of appendicitis, but I learn that Tomás is guilty on all counts.
None of us attends sentencing. We meet for brunch: mimosas and croissants take us practically home.
Practically home: our sutra and discipline.
