JUROR NO. 7: Yes. It is.
Then Judge Moy thanked the jury for their service and told them that they were discharged, and that they were free now to discuss the case with anyone they liked, or with no one, as they chose, and the twelve of them stood up and filed out through the side door for the last time. He went last. At the door, he turned and looked at her, openly, for as long as he wanted to, and she looked back, and Department Fourteen, for the second time in its history, watched the court reporter, and this time she did not care.
He was waiting in the booth at Tillie's when she got there at a quarter to four. He had not ordered anything. Moby-Dick lay closed on the table, with the bookmark, a Muni transfer, about four-fifths of the way through. He stood up when she came in, and the bell over the door jangled, and Hettie, behind the counter, put down the coffeepot and folded her arms to watch, and the men from Public Works stopped talking about the 49ers, and he opened his mouth, and Mina saw, through the front window, across Larkin Street, a man in a tan windbreaker sitting in a brown Chevrolet Citation with a camera in his lap, a Pentax with a long lens, pointed at the door of Tillie's.
She knew the man. She had seen him every day for six weeks, in the back row of the public benches in Department Fourteen. She had taken him for a retiree. He had not been a retiree.
"Don't," she said.
Remy stopped with his mouth open. "Don't what?"
"Don't say anything. Sit down. Don't look out the window."
He sat. He did not look out the window, which she would remember later with love; he simply believed her. She sat down across from him and put her hands flat on the table to keep them still.
"There's a man across the street with a camera," she said, very low. "He's been in the courtroom every day. He works for them. Pacific Bastion. Or for Pratt."
"How do you know?"
"Because I watch people for a living." She heard her own voice, quick and steady, no stones anywhere. It occurred to her distantly that she was talking to him, that these were the first words in thirty-one days, and that they were the wrong ones. "They lost. They lost big. Bad faith. They'll move for a new trial. Everybody does. They'll need grounds. And a juror who ate lunch every day with the court reporter—"