The Gift of Maggie

On the first day of trial, the jurors were separated at least six feet apart. They wore masks, like everyone in the courtroom, unless they were speaking. Maggie, as the alternate, was given a spot where the white-haired judge could see her easily over his rimless reading glasses. Maggie's eyes were especially dark and piercing above her navy blue mask. She had used extra care applying her eyeliner and mascara this morning. She was seated closer than any other juror to the defendant, who was introduced as Mr. Nicholas Krantzler, an immigrant from Austria. She could almost touch him if she reached out, he was so close to her. She would have to be excused as an alternate juror. Surely Mr. Krantzler would be pleased that now she could start working at his club. Instead, they locked eyes for a moment. She read his intense look that told her to be quiet, not to say a word, he was counting on her, even though she was just an alternate juror. She held herself tightly, but quietly.

The trial began. The attorneys made opening remarks and the prosecution began its case. Krantzler was a homicidal maniac who strangled poor working girls, usually strippers, in their homes and apartments. At the midmorning break, the bailiff led the jurors were led out of the court room first. It appeared the judge wanted to say something to the attorneys out of earshot of the jurors. As Maggie passed by the defendant, more closely than she should have, he reached out with his strong hands and twisted the flesh of her thigh, just below the table, out of sight of the judge or the bailiff. Maggie would have cried out from shock and pain but her mask covered her mouth. His eyes told her once again to remain silent.

In the jury room, she sat apart from the conference room table and rubbed the bruise on her thigh through her skirt. Despite the judge's admonition, some of the jurors began discussing the defendant. She listened without speaking.

"He looks like a thug."

"I'd hate to meet him in a dark alley."

"Can you imagine waking up and finding him in your bedroom? Even without a butcher knife, I'd just die."

"We aren't supposed to discuss the case," one juror finally said.

"We aren't discussing the case or the evidence. But we can remark on the impression the defendant makes. Just looking at Nicholas Krantzler makes my skin crawl. What kind of a name is 'Krantzler' anyway?"

Maggie turned her head away from the others, hoping not to hear the acrimonious comments about her future boss. She reminded herself that there were always two sides to every story. And, a person is innocent until proven guilty in America, right? And what evidence had there been so far? Just the speeches made by the lawyers. She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle. Why would someone like her boss want to kill strippers? He profited from them. The police and the prosecutors had to be mistaken.

The trial continued that morning. The jurors ate lunch together, then listened to more evidence. The trial did not conclude that first day. At night they were sent home. Maggie left in a group with the other jurors, led by the bailiff to the parking lot. He made sure they were all safely in their cars before he returned to the courthouse. He waved at Maggie when she left.

She couldn't sleep again that night. The evidence was entirely one-sided, pointing to guilt. Her boss's attorney made objections, but the judge overruled him each time. The talk among the jurors leaned toward conviction. It was entirely unfair. But there was nothing she could do--she was only an alternate juror. She watched the defendant carefully during the trial, and each time he looked at her, she smiled with her eyes, sending him such encouragement as she could. He must have received the message, because each time the jurors left the courtroom, she passed closely enough to the defendant that he could pinch her thigh painfully. He was communicating with her the only way he could. She examined the bruise on her right thigh. A growing purple discoloration bloomed on her thigh below her hip, a constant reminder to her that he believed in her. It was there when she went to bed, visible below her short pajama top, and it was there when she awoke in the morning.

The evidence portion of the trial ended. The prosecution and the defense presented their cases. Maggie thought the defense played it too conservatively. She wanted the defendant's attorney to savage the prosecution, but it never happened. And now the case was to be turned over to those twelve jurors, who acted as though they had already made up their minds. It just wasn't fair.

She knew it was time to take matters into her own hands.

The judge summoned Maggie to his chambers. "You've sent me a note, Miss?"

Maggie nodded and stood with her head down, her shoulders hunched. She was wearing silk pants that followed the form of her legs and ass. Her white blouse was semi-transparent and she had decided against a bra. It would have shown beneath her blouse. Her boobs didn't need the support, although they did bobble and sway as she walked but attractively.

Maggie waited until the judge had gotten a good look at her. Then, reluctantly, she spoke. "Your honor, it probably doesn't matter because I'm only an alternate juror, but one of the other jurors has not been following your instructions."

"Oh, I suspect that there have been more than one who has tested my authority, my dear." He chuckled, tenting his fingers over his belly.

"I confronted the man. Reminded him that he had to listen to all the evidence and to the other jurors. And then he..."

"Yes, my dear?"

"He brutalized me. He punched me in the thigh, several times. He was sneaky about it. He did it when no one else was around or looking."

The judge sat straight up in his chair. "We can prosecute him after the trial if you like. I'll make a note of what you've told me. As soon as you're released as a juror, you go to the police and make a report."

"Don't you see, your honor? He's mad at me for trying to help you make sure the trial is fair. He's already made up his mind and he's trying to pressure the other jurors into siding with him."

"Who is this man?"

Maggie named juror number eight, an overweight man on the panel that looked too mindless to be able to defend himself against these charges in the short run. The judge sent the bailiff to fetch him.

"Before he comes, your honor, I'd like you to see for yourself the pain he caused me." Maggie didn't wait for the judge's response before she undid her pants and slid them down to her shoes. Her blouse covered a bit of her thong underwear but not all of it. The black-and-blue mark was high on her thigh and contrasted with her glowing, alabaster skin. The judge grumbled to clear his throat.

"Oh, my dear! I feel I must bring this to the attention of the other attorneys. Do you mind?"

Maggie lowered her eyelashes before she shook her head. She pulled her silk pants higher but did not fasten the clasp.

When the attorneys arrived in the judge's chambers, he explained the situation. The prosecution did not believe the accusation. "Well," the judge said, "look for yourselves."

He motioned for Maggie to lower her slacks again, which she did by letting go of them. They fell and pooled around her ankles. The men let out a gasp. "Turn around, miss," the judge instructed. The contusion had spread since the first day. Parts of it were yellow besides the purple and blue.

The prosecution shook his head. "I don't believe it, your honor. It's some kind of trick."

When Maggie heard those words, she looked up angrily at the prosecutor. "This is no trick. I have no other bruises on my body, except where that man punched me." To prove it, she shrugged off her blouse and was pleased to see the "Wow!" in the attorneys' eyes when they saw her perfect breasts. Before they could speak further, she pulled down her thong and stretched out her arms.

"We believe you, miss. We believe you. Please get dressed," the judge said. "Well, given this information, I have no alternative but to release juror number eight and install the alternate juror. Any objections?"

The attorneys shook their heads. He dismissed them. Maggie stayed in the judge's chambers, alone with him. "There, my dear, does that satisfy you?"

She nodded her head and took a step toward the judge. When she was close enough, she bent forward to kiss his cheek. She must not have completely fastened her blouse though, because it gaped open exposing her sugar plums to view. The judge blushed, coughed, and stood up. "Please, go back to the jury room."

"Of course, your honor."

The twelve jurors gathered in the jury room to deliberate after hearing all the arguments and the judge's instructions. One guy took charge as the others sat, dividing up pieces of paper to be used as ballots.

"Before we start, let's get a rough estimate of where everyone stands. Mark your ballot with a Guilty or Not Guilty and we'll count them up. Is that satisfactory? It must be unanimous, so let's get to work."

"This shouldn't take long," said another man. The woman next to him shook her head. Was that agreement or disagreement? Maggie couldn't be certain.

The votes were taken and counted. 11 to 1 for conviction. Maggie was alone in her belief that the defendant was innocent.

"Well," said the first guy, who was now the foreperson, "time to start discussing the evidence. Who wants to start?"

They went around the table talking about the facts and inferences that had been presented by the prosecution. When it came to Maggie, she could only say, "A man is innocent until he is proven guilty, by the great store of evidence, no?"

"Great store?" asked the foreperson.

"Yes, preponderance. It should be overwhelming proof. No real question of his guilt, no? I believe that there is still a question of this man's innocence."

The room groaned, but the foreperson kept things under control. They reviewed the evidence again. They pointed out how compelling this evidence was.

Maggie was not convinced, and she would not be swayed.

Six hours later, a note was sent to the judge that the jury was deadlocked. The judge sent back a stern reply, used by all judges in this situation, to try to dynamite the logjam. Most of the jurors were ready to return home but they were forced to deliberate another four hours before coming to the same conclusion. Maggie could not be swayed.

The judge called everyone back in late that night. Once he was satisfied that there would be no progress, he declared a mistrial. It was not a finding of not guilty, but it meant that the defendant was not convicted. The prosecution would have to present their case to a new jury.

The prosecuting attorney moved to have the defendant held without bail, citing the evidence of his involvement that had been produced at trial. The defense objected, and the judge had to deny the prosecution's motion. The $1,000,000 bail had proven sufficient to insure Nick Krantzler's appearance at trial. Maggie let out a breath that she had been holding. He was free again. She would see him at the club the next day if she wanted.

The defendant smiled at each of the jurors as a way of thanking them. Most refused to look at him, but Maggie stood rapt with emotion. She knew she had saved this man's freedom, perhaps even his life. She felt proud to have done her civic duty.

Word spread fast. Despite the late hour, Maggie received a call from the manager of the club congratulating her on finishing her jury duty. He also reminded her that she should be in the club no later than 1:00 to fill out the paperwork.

Maggie tingled with the anticipation of dancing again. It would be the kind of dancing that these men were not used to seeing. She planned out her costume, selecting a few two-piece bikinis to wear as she danced. She had flowing skirts and tiny blouses. She wasn't sure if this was the best clothing to wear, but she would learn from the other women, she was sure.

The next day, she was at the club even earlier than 1:00. She filled out the paperwork. She talked to the other girls who gave her some garish makeup and some gaudy glitter to make her body pop under the lights. Maggie was game to try it. The music she selected was classical. Who would have thought? But it was dramatic music--the CanCan, the Sabre Dance, Rachmaninoff, Stavinsky. Some of the pieces had to be scaled back, but Maggie didn't mind. The audience seemed to like it, too. It was a break from the usual dull pounding that assaulted their ears.

Maggie danced like a ballerina but she stripped like a showgirl. She was having fun. She saw greenbacks flowing her way. In the men's eyes, she saw the familiar "Wow" that her lovers showed. Sure enough, the young college-age student, Marcos, from the manager's office was in the front row, "the sniff seats" the other girls called them. His mouth was open as she executed her dancing. She avoided little mincing steps and concentrated on the stretches and leaps that made the audience gasp.

She was deluged with requests for lap dances, but the old manager refused all offers this first night. "They'll come back tomorrow, and then we can talk. Capisce?" One of the men who was most disappointed by failing to buy a lap dance was the bailiff from the court. He promised to come back the next time she danced.

At the end of the night, Maggie was exhausted but satisfied with her performance. Many of the girls found the dancing boring or degrading. Not Maggie, not yet anyway. She was looking forward to the next night and the opportunity to provide those mysterious lap dances provided behind the dark curtains.

Maggie's apartment was quiet and dark at 3:00 in the morning. She didn't need any lights on. She couldn't hear any noise from her neighbors so she knew they were sleeping, at least until 6:00 in the morning when the working stiffs would be up to get to work. Some worked in offices, some at home, and some in their cars. She opened the drapes and looked across to her nosy neighbor's apartment. It was quiet, too. In the street, she saw the bailiff, going into the apartment building directly across street. Maggie laughed to herself, wondering if he could see into her apartment from his own.

She took off her traveling clothes in front of the window, unafraid that she would be seen. After all, it was 3:00 in the morning. And even if someone, like the bailiff were watching, so what? She had been seen disrobing for the last twelve hours.

It felt good to be naked in her own apartment again. Maggie stretched as tall as she could reach, and then touched her toes. The muscles she'd worked all night had begun to tighten so the stretching helped. She decided to take a bath. A bubble bath.

The water was warm. The frothy bubbles clung to her naked body. She slipped lower into the tub, until her breasts were partially covered. Her neck rested on the back of the tub. She set her phone to play music by Debussy. The dreamy chords evoked an ethereal world that appealed to Maggie and helped her to relax. She lit three candles and placed them around the tub. The soft light flickered over the slippery wetness of her body.

She used a soft cloth to soothe the aches of her legs, her arms, her lower back. She settled into the tub and closed her eyes. She may have slept.

She was awakened by the sound of the apartment door opening. She knew she had locked it. She reached for her phone as she strained to hear the next sound. The metallic slide and click of the bolt she rarely used whispered that it had been locked to secure the door. It was quiet for a few seconds, then the light switch was clicked. An overhead fixture in the foyer blazed. She saw a shadow on the carpet outside her bathroom door.

"Maggie?" The voice rumbled.

She recognized that deep voice. Even the shadow seemed familiar, especially the large hands attached to it. It grew larger as it approached the bathroom. Maggie reached for a towel.

"Mr. Krantzler?"

"Call me Nick, Maggie." He appeared at the doorway and took in the vision of Maggie in the tub.

Maggie put down the towel. She gathered her legs underneath her, and stood up. The watery bubbles slid over her taut body. The candles reflected off the bits of soap captured on her sugar plums.

"Why are you here, Nick? Didn't I just leave you at the club?"

"I didn't see you leave, and I wanted to congratulate you on the wonderful job you did on your first day. So, congratulations, Maggie. Wonderful job, especially for someone who had never danced before."

"Oh, I've danced." Maggie stepped out of the tub. She dripped on the bathroom rug a bit but fought the urge to cover up. Her skin at her fingers and toes was dimpled from her time in the water and her areolae puckered despite the warm air in the bathroom. Nick's eyes roamed her body, up her muscular legs, across the T of her clavicle, resting most often on the naked skin of her pussy and the gentle curves of her breasts. "I've danced most of my life."

"You know what I mean, sweetheart." He took a step closer. Maggie pushed past him to exit the bathroom. She could feel his eyes watching the sway of her tight ass as she walked toward the living area.

"Where are you going?"

Maggie quickened her walk, then began to run. She reached her apartment door, pushed open the bolt, and twisted the door handle lock.

Nick's strong hand clutched her wrist and pulled it from the door handle. The other hand went around her waist and spun her around. He put both hands on her hips and pulled her close. Maggie leaned back like she was afraid of his breath. She raised her arms defensively.

"Mr. Krantzler, I want you to leave."

"I'm sure you do." His arms slid up her sides, along her arms, over her shoulders, until he reached her slim neck. Maggie's eyes grew wide with terror. "You had a wonderful opening tonight, sweetheart. A superb opening. The trouble is, you were too good. No one wants the other performers. They don't want their lap dances, they don't want to make rain for the other dancers, they won't buy them drinks. You are too successful. That could be the death knell for our club."

Maggie's voice croaked as she spoke. "I didn't know. I don't have to dance for anyone. I can be bad, really. Please..." She coughed the last word.

She felt his fingers tightening around her throat, painfully. She thought of the trial, prosecutor's opening remarks, and the closing remarks, and the words of the forensic pathologist, and the medical examiner's reports. They were all true. Krantzler was a killer. He should be behind bars. He should be executed! Now, Maggie felt she would be the next victim, the next body on the slab, the next photograph to be poured over by the police and finally by the next jury. Her mind reeled. She raised her arms as though she was hoping to fly away. Her knees became jelly, unable to support her. The blood pounded beneath the skin in her face.

The door shook with the pounding from the hallway. "Miss! Miss! Are you alright?"

Maggie didn't recognize the voice, but then she was blacking out. Nevertheless, it was the only help that had come for her. She took as deep a breath as she could and forced the breath from her lungs in a scream, "Help! Aaaaahhhh!" She collapsed at the foot of the door and rolled out of its way as the door's faceplate and latch bolt cracked away from the jamb.

"This isn't your concern, cowboy. Just leave." Krantzler growled his warning, like a lion guarding his prey. His shoulders were hunched and he crouched a little, as though he might launch an attack against the intruder.

"I think you should leave, mister," the intruder said, but none too confidently.

Maggie got to her hands and knees between the two men. She was nude, but neither man could afford to notice. She stood between the two of them, swaying, rubbing the marks on her neck. From a distance, there was the wail of a siren. Maggie prayed it was coming to her place. She recognized the bailiff.