The man rose, shrugged, and shuffled out of the courtroom.
Scott said, “Any of you not heard about this case?”
No one raised a hand.
“All right. My client is a prostitute and a heroin addict. You all know that, right?”
Their heads nodded.
“Again, I ask only one thing of you: Don’t prejudge her. Don’t assume. You don’t know what another person’s life is like until you’ve walked around in her shoes awhile. Ms. Jones is not here today because she’s ill. She’s suffering withdrawal sickness. How many of you smoke?”
Eight jurors raised their hands.
“Imagine if you had to quit cold turkey.”
They nodded.
“Have any of you ever retained a prostitute?”
No hands were raised, but one man glanced around.
“Sir?”
“I ain’t never retained a hooker, but I had sex with one.”
The judge: “You’re excused.”
Scott thumbed through the jurors’ questionnaires and stopped at one completed by a high school football coach. Most football coaches considered themselves smarter than the general population because they understood the definition of pass interference. But one other predisposition of football coaches gave him pause. So he turned to juror number 28 and said, “Coach, who’s the greatest running back ever produced by the State of Texas?”
Without blinking, the coach asked, “Negro or white?”
The judge: “You’re excused.”
After the coach had left, Scott turned to another juror, an older man whose sunburned face told Scott he worked outdoors.
“Sir, in response to question number eleven asking how far did you go in school, you answered twelve miles.”
“Yes, sir, we lived in the country, so that’s how far we had to go.”
“Uh, well, the question means, you know, what was the highest grade level you attained?”
The man seemed genuinely embarrassed. “Oh, hell, I’m sorry. I made a B once.”
The judge: “You’re excused.”
Scott now turned to an older woman clutching a big purse in her lap and wearing a worried expression.
“Ma’am?” She looked up. “Ma’am, is there anything that would interfere with your serving on this jury?”
“Will I be home in time for Oprah?”
The judge: “You’re excused.”
On the drive home, Bobby said, “Will I be home in time for Oprah? That was a good one.”
Scott had struck seven prospective jurors and Ray Burns nine. The twelve jurors who would determine whether Shawanda Jones would live or die had been selected and seated for the trial that would start on Monday: there were seven men and five women; six were white, four were black, and two were Hispanic; there was a teacher, a nurse, a carpenter, a dental assistant, a car salesman, two housewives, a mechanic, a junior college professor, a contractor, a bartender, and a grocery store clerk.
Scott said to Bobby, “Do you trust Karen?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m worried Dan Ford planted her.”
“You mean as a spy?”
“Yeah, to learn our strategy.”
“What strategy? Prayer? ” Bobby smiled. “Don’t worry, Scotty, she’s not a spy.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Remember a few weeks ago, in the pool, I said I’d probably never have sex again?”
“Yeah.”
“I was wrong.”
“You mean…?”
“Yeah. And no girl would have sex with me just for money. Believe me, I know.”
Money could not make the rape go away. The physical pain was gone, but the mental pain would never leave Hannah Steele.
It was a beautiful afternoon in Galveston. The sun was warm, but the sea breeze was cool against her skin. Hannah was strolling down the seawall, seventeen feet above the beach. To her left, across the boulevard, were restaurants, bars, gift shops, and beachfront condos and hotels; to her right was the sandy beach and beyond that the Gulf of Mexico, a body of brown water whose swells rolled ashore and broke into small waves that died in the sand around the feet of kids wading at the water’s edge. Their parents were sitting in chairs under colorful umbrellas that dotted the beach in both directions as far as Hannah could see. Other kids were building sand castles or hunting for seashells, and a few surfers were trying to find waves strong enough to provide a ride, but without much luck.
Hannah liked to walk the seawall.
Her therapist said it was good for her to take these walks and to realize that all around her life went on and that her life must as well. But Hannah always focused on the kids; her therapist said she would have children one day, but Hannah didn’t think she would ever be able to have sex again. Clark McCall had destroyed her life.
And now his life was over.
She had tried not to feel happy when she had heard about Clark’s death. But somewhere deep inside her she hoped he had suffered. Now she was the accused woman’s only hope, Mr. Fenney had said. Her only hope. So she would fly to Dallas on Sunday. It would be her first trip back since she had left.
Could she do it?
Could she go into that courtroom and sit up there and see Senator McCall and tell the world what Clark did to her? He kissed me… he touched me… I said no… he said yes… he slapped me… hit me… once, twice, three times, harder each time… he was wild-eyed, crazy, strong
… he pinned me down… pulled my panties down… pried my legs apart… yes, I fought him… but he was too strong… he pushed into me… the pain… the pain…
The pain would never go away.
She had gone to SMU on a dance scholarship. She loved to dance. She had not danced since that night. The rape had changed her life. She hadn’t been able to get over it, to get on with her life. Her therapist had convinced her that testifying at the trial might be just the closure she needed to move forward. She almost walked into a man.
“Excuse me,” she said.
“Hello, Hannah,” the man said.
Hannah looked up at the big bald man in front of her and started to cry.
The only open chair was next to Penny Birnbaum.
Scott and Bobby had returned home and eaten lunch with Louis and the girls. Scott had then driven the Jetta to the title company that was closing the sale of 4000 Beverly Drive. The receptionist led him to the small conference room where he would sign over his home to Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Birnbaum.
Penny was smiling and patting the seat of the empty chair.
Scott introduced himself to Joy, the closing agent sitting on the near side of the table next to Jeffrey, who was poring over the stack of documents like a jeweler over a new batch of uncut diamonds. Scott walked around the table, sat next to Penny, and scooted his chair up under the table. Before he had settled in, her right hand was on his left knee.
“I still need to measure for furniture, Scott,” she said.
She was wearing a sundress that accentuated her round breasts and narrow waist. Her hand moved up to Scott’s thigh and began closing in on his crotch. He reached down, grabbed her wrist, and placed her hand firmly in her lap. She pushed out her lips in a pouty face. But when he released her wrist, her hand returned to his thigh like a spring-action screen door slamming in place. She smiled.
Joy pushed a pile of papers across the table to Scott and began reciting the numbers shown on the closing
