Chapter Thirty-Six
The bailiff led sixty people summoned for jury duty into the courtroom. When they were seated, she called out eighteen of them, directing the first twelve into the jury box and the final six into a row of chairs in front of the box. The lawyers would question them first. If the judge excused anyone, someone from the remaining group would replace them.
They were a microcosm of the county: black and white, Hispanic and Asian, men and women wearing jeans and suits and everything in between, carrying briefcases and newspapers, knitting and needlepoint, books both electronic and print, crossword puzzles, and anything else to take their mind off the monotony of waiting for something to happen.
A man with a downturned mouth, hair past his shoulders, and sleeves rolled up revealing arms covered in ink was first in line as the jurors filled the benches. A pregnant woman close to term wedged her bottom between an elderly man with rheumy eyes and a middle-aged woman who patted the other woman’s bulging belly, uninvited and grinning. Men and women dressed for the boardroom glanced at their watches, shaking their heads and fidgeting. Some people slumped in their seats, elbows on their knees, and rested their chins in their palms. A handful had eager eyes, itching to do their civic duty.
Twelve of their number would make up the jury after the lawyers finished asking them questions in a process called voir dire, Latin meaning “to speak the truth.” It was intended to find out whether they could keep an open mind, base their verdict solely on the law and the evidence, and be fair and impartial to both sides. That’s what the judge and lawyers would tell them, though it was the last thing the lawyers wanted. They had one goal: a jury that would listen to them, believe them, and vote for them. Like every other phase of the trial, voir dire was as much about winning as it was about justice. Probably more.
Mason returned as the last of the jury pool took their seats.
“Well?” Claire asked.
“Blues is on it.”
“What does that mean? How is he going to find her now if he hasn’t been able to find her before now?”
Mason looked at his aunt, shaking his head. “Every time you ask me that I tell you the same thing. He’s got his own way of doing things. I never ask, and neither should you.”
Claire narrowed her eyes. “I’ve already got one probationer on my payroll. I don’t need another one.”
“Don’t worry. Blues is a lot more careful than I ever was.”
“That’s setting the bar rather low,” Claire said and scooted her chair toward Kate. “Are you ready?”
Kate pointed to her open laptop. “I’ve got a spreadsheet that ranks each juror from one to five based on the information in the questionnaires they were required to fill out and on my research. I’ll update it depending on what happens in voir dire. We’ll go over it when you have to make your strikes.”
The judge instructed the jurors on the process and turned it over to the lawyers.
“One hour each, Counsel. I want a jury by lunchtime.”
Patrick Ortiz went first, as he would at each phase of the trial because the state had the burden of proving by clear and convincing evidence that Alex Stone had, in the words of the statute defining murder in the first degree, knowingly caused Dwayne Reed’s death after deliberation on the matter. He stood in the middle of the courtroom, jacket unbuttoned, one hand in his pocket, his other arm resting on the lectern, his shirt puffing around his waist, threatening to come untucked.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, nodding and smiling.
“Good morning,” they murmured.
“Well,” he said, expanding his aw-shucks grin, “there’s eighteen of you and the judge says we can only have twelve on the jury, so six of you got to go.”
They laughed, as he knew they would, as they did every time he used that corny opening. They didn’t just laugh; they opened up like a bouquet of blossoming flowers, with their knees and arms uncrossed, faces open and expectant.
Kate leaned forward, whispering to Claire. “This guy is good.”
Ortiz wrapped his arms around them, gently probing their attitudes about crime and punishment, thanking one juror for her candor when she said it was against her religion to sit in judgment of others. He looked at Judge West, who excused the juror without Ortiz having to make the request. He finished an hour later.
“Ms. Mason,” Judge West said, “you may inquire.”
Claire Mason wasn’t pretty or handsome. Her features were stark, her face lined. She wore her gray hair cut simply for convenience. She wasn’t stylish, never wore makeup, and couldn’t remember in which decade she’d bought the gray suit she was wearing. More than anything else, she was sturdy-strong, resolute, and without artifice. She wouldn’t claim as fact anything she couldn’t prove, and she wouldn’t make any argument she didn’t believe in. Jurors might not want to have a beer with her, but they would believe her.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, “sitting on this jury will be the most important thing you may ever do. It may be more important than whom you marry, how you raise your children, or how you put food on your table. There’s a simple reason why your service is so important. At the end of this trial, you will decide whether Alex Stone goes home to her loved ones or spends the rest of her life behind concrete and barbed wire in an eight-foot- by-eight-foot prison cell. You will carry the burden of that decision with you for the rest of your life. The prosecutor told you that he wanted a jury that would be fair to both sides. And I agree with him. As you think about your answers to my questions, I want you to imagine that this was your day in court and that your life hung in the balance and ask yourself if you would want someone in your frame of mind to decide your fate.”
A juror raised his hand and she pointed to him. “Yes, sir.”
“If you put it that way, I’d have to say no right now.”
“Why is that?” Judge West asked.
“’Cause I figure the police wouldn’t have arrested her if she wasn’t guilty.”
“In that case, I’m going to excuse you from further duty,” the judge said.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Claire said and began questioning the panel.
“Alex Stone is homosexual, a lesbian. She’s been in a committed relationship with a woman named Bonnie Long for seven years. Dr. Long will be a witness in this trial. Knowing this, can each of you uphold your oath as a juror and decide this case solely on the law and facts without regard to Alex’s sexual orientation?”
None of the jurors responded, though several squirmed in their seats. Claire let the question hang until she was satisfied that no one would come forward. She stepped in front of the lectern, closing the distance between her and the jury, her eyes marching past each juror as she spoke.
“I take it by your silence that each and every one of you will do your sworn duty without regard to Alex’s sexual orientation, and I thank you for that solemn commitment, because justice requires nothing less.”
Claire moved on to other areas of inquiry. After using her allotted time, she thanked the jury and turned to the judge. “That’s all the questions I have.”
“Counsel will make their strikes,” Judge West said. “The prosecution will make their first strike, after which the defendant will make their first strike, and so on until each side has exercised three strikes. Counsel will write their strikes on a slip of paper and hand it to the bailiff, who will show it to opposing counsel and then to the court.”
Kate set her laptop on the counsel table. Claire, Alex, and Mason gathered round as she scrolled up and down the list, whispering her recommendations.
“I don’t like it,” she said. “We need four strikes. No matter what we do, we’re going to be stuck with someone who could screw us unless Ortiz does us a favor and knocks off one of our bad jurors.”
The first two strikes went quickly. Ortiz hesitated before making his third strike. The bailiff delivered it to Claire, who showed it to the others.
“Shit,” Kate said. “That leaves us with two of our bad choices, Brandon McCarthy and Catherine Wilson. McCarthy is an engineer, which means he’s rational, logical, and unemotional. Plus, he’s black and so is the victim. Not good. Wilson is a sixty-two-year-old rich white woman who opposes concealed carry. She’ll blame you for having a gun and she’ll be angry with you for not telling Bonnie. When Claire asked the gay questions, both of their micro expressions showed disgust. That won’t help.”
“I agree, even without your spreadsheet,” Claire said. “Which one do you think is worse?”
“McCarthy because he’s a leader. Wilson isn’t, which means that she’ll listen to the other jurors and may
