A Jury of One

Chapter 4

You can learn a lot of things by people-watching. Their mannerisms as they go about their day, unaware that they are being watched, tell a lot about their character. Watching a person for a short length of time can often speak volumes about who they are and what they do. Take, for example, that man over there. He's sitting in his grey Toyota Camry, a Yankees hat pulled low over his head and his jacket collar pulled up as high as it will go. He appears to be asleep. Perhaps his wife sent him to sleep in his car as a punishment for something he did or said. Maybe an affair, maybe something less fatal to his marriage. That is what one might think if you just give this man a passing glance. After all, that's what we do, we never have time to truly study any one person. Our schedules are too filled. Even a people-watcher will reluctantly have to get back to his job, or his family, or his bed soon enough.

But not the man in the Yankees cap. He has plenty of time to wait and watch. He has no family, at least none that care for him, and he could go without sleep just to make sure that he knows everything about the person he is watching. If you were to walk closer to that grey Camry you would see the man's eyes are open. They are fixed on the house at 100 Sycamore Road. And if you were to look down, you would see a small notebook and pen in his lap, where they could easily be tucked under the folds of his jacket with a little sleight of hand. Every so often the man will slowly shift his arm and scribble down something in his notebook. An imperceptible motion to someone who is just glancing. The man knows that nobody in this suburban neighborhood would ever take more than a cursory glance at him. The families on Sycamore Road never take time to get to know their neighbors. For all they know, the man in the car could be one of their neighbors that they never really learned who they were. And the man had a story, a well crafted one, for anyone who would inquire, although he knew they wouldn't.

On this particular night the neighborhood goes to bed early. Perhaps there is nothing good on TV. One by one, all the lights in the windows wink out. One remains lit at 100 Sycamore Road. The man can see the silhouettes of two people who appear to be animatedly arguing. Their silhouettes disappear and then reappear, this time with one of the parties hitting the other. The man in the street far below that second floor window reaches inside a pocket and pulls out a pair of binoculars, moving them up to his eyes. With his newly improved vision he can see a man in the window with his hands around the woman's neck. The man in the Yankees hat makes a note in the book and reaches for a camera in the back seat of his car. With sure  fingers he zooms in and captures the scene in the window of 100 Sycamore Road. The man replaces his camera in the back seat, inside his leather briefcase. He returns to being immobile, to pretending to be something he's not.

The grey Toyota remains parked on Sycamore Road until 4:30 in the morning, when the sun is just beginning to paint the night sky with muted reds and oranges. The man in the Yankees cap drives away slowly, keeping the engine noise to a minimum so he doesn't disturb the neighbors. His car is the only one on the road as he makes the short commute across town to his house. He rolls quietly into his driveway and cuts the engine, strolling leisurely with his notebook, camera, and briefcase inside his house. He takes off his coat and hat, hanging them in the entryway just like he does every day. Everything is just as he left it, with the dishes done, the lights off, and his study perfectly unorganized. Walking to his bedroom, he turns that light on first. Any curious neighbor would see his bedroom glow at the same time it always does. The man slips out of his surveillance clothes and into a suit. He perfectly accents the navy blue with one of his "fun ties". Today's tie has pigs with wings on it. He stands in front of the mirror, making sure that he looks presentable and his dark hair is the same as it always is, carefully disheveled.

The man walks into the hallway, flicking that light on, and into the dining room, whose light he also switches on. He makes himself toast with raspberry jam and eats it in silence as he carefully copies the writings in the notebook into a meticulously drawn timetable. This timetable is placed into a folder marked only with KD-2. The man also copies the pictures from the camera into an encrypted file on his computer, prints them, and then erases all traces of his activity. The pictures also go into the file marked KD-2. The man places the folder in his briefcase, next to another folder labeled Kendra Davidson. Collecting himself, he methodically turns off all the lights in his house and pulls on a formal jacket appropriate for work. He exits his house and locks the front door, then gets in his Camry for the second time in an hour and drives away, just like every other morning.

The man arrives at the Center for the Help of Abused Persons at 6:00 A.M., like he always does. "Good morning, Dr. Franco," the receptionist, Mary, greets him. "Good morning!" he responds cheerfully, making sure his personality reflects that of his tie. Once he is safely in his office, Mathias pulls out two files. Kendra Davidson returns to the shelf of all his other patients he sees. The other gets locked in his bottom drawer, under stacks of meaningless papers. Mathias checks his schedule on his desktop computer. He has five scheduled appointments today, and who knows how many others will show up unannounced. Mathias strides over to the shelf to retrieve the five files, and also the Davidson one. He knows that after what happened last night, Kendra will probably be in to see him. He spreads the files out on his messy desk in a seemingly random order. Better to keep any prying eyes from seeing past the clutter into the true organization of his office. Mathias relaxed into his large chair, taking a deep breath. Then he began to work on the mountain of required paperwork he needed to submit to administration.