The Deep Blue Alibi

Sometimes, the answers were the key. 'What those cops did to poor Mr. McDuffie was a crime, but I didn't take to the streets and riot like some of those fools.' And other things, like membership in the African Methodist Church, civic organizations, and a residential address could help.

'Of the two hundred and four jurors seated in all the trials, twenty-three were African-Americans,' Bobby said. 'That's about eleven percent, which is less than the population but not, like, really outrageous.'

'Not low enough to show systematic exclusion.'

'That's what I mean, Uncle Steve. Every trial had at least one black juror and some had two.'

'But never more than two?'

'Nope. Unless you count alternates.'

'Anything else?'

'The African-Americans were almost never tossed off. Whatever ones got into the box were accepted by both sides.'

'Just like the Mays case. Only five on the panel, and three got seated, one as an alternate. Unbelievable odds.'

'Maybe it's because the African-Americans were such solid dudes.'

'Meaning?'

'The black jurors all seemed to have good jobs.'

Bobby handed Steve his notes. Next to the name and address, his nephew had listed the black jurors' occupations. Postal worker. Dentist. Accountant. Homemaker. Paramedic. Dentist. Probation officer.

Probation officer?

'This isn't a jury pool!' Steve thundered. 'It's a Rotary meeting. A Republican convention. These guys drive Buicks. Where are the people on work release? On food stamps?'

'Did you watch the beginning of the tape, Uncle Steve?'

'Nothing to watch but an empty courtroom. I fast-forwarded to voir dire.'

'You've gotta let it play a while. Mr. Jones came in and was doing something, but I don't know what it was.'

Steve rewound the tape to the beginning. Just as before, the camera was on, but the courtroom was empty. Minutes passed.

'Who says trials are boring?' Steve asked.

'Let it play.'

A few seconds later, a uniformed bailiff led several dozen people into the courtroom. They wore plastic name tags identifying them as jurors. At the moment, though, they were only potential jurors. Veniremen. More minutes passed. The civilians sat on the hard benches, some reading newspapers, most looking bored.

Reginald Jones walked in, pushing what looked like a grocery cart filled with files. He took his seat below the bench, smiled toward the gallery, and began speaking. No audio here, so Steve couldn't tell exactly what he said. But soon, a line formed in front of Jones' desk, and Steve knew what was going on.

'Jones is asking who wants out of jury service on hardship grounds,' he told Bobby.

In a few moments, half the panel queued up in front of the deputy clerk's desk. Apparently a lot of people were caring for dying aunts. It only took another few moments for a pattern to begin emerging.

'He's letting the black jurors go home,' Bobby said, just as a young man with dreadlocks hurried out of the courtroom.

'Not all of them. He's keeping the older African-Americans and the better-dressed ones, along with most of the whites.'

'But there's a white juror getting excused.' Bobby pointed to the next man in line. 'He's so big, maybe Mr. Jones was afraid of him.'

True, the guy was a load, his shoulders nearly filling the screen. Jones smiled broadly, energetically pumped the man's hand, then handed him a slip of paper. The man nodded and headed for the door. Jurors in the gallery applauded, and the man waved at them, stopping when someone offered a pen and a piece of paper. An autograph hound. Then Steve recognized him.

'Ed Newman,' Steve said. 'All-Pro guard for the Dolphins in the eighties.'

'Maybe he had a Monday night game and couldn't sit on the jury.'

'Keep watching. It's getting interesting.'

The next person in line, who appeared Hispanic, wore a blue mechanic's jumpsuit, and Steve could make out the logo of the late and lamented Eastern Air Lines. Sorry, no excusal. Behind him, a well-dressed middle-aged white woman. Sorry, ma'am. You gotta stay, too. Then a white middle-aged man in a suit. Another smile from Reggie Jones. He stamped a slip of paper; the man bowed in gratitude and headed out. The camera picked up the black yarmulke on the man's head.

'The guy's a rabbi or something,' Bobby said.

'So's Ed Newman. Jewish, I mean.'

Newman, one of those brainy football players of a generation ago, went on to law school and had become a fine judge himself. But that's not what Steve was thinking about. The pattern was taking on another dimension, Steve thought.

'A Jewish football player?' Bobby said. 'Cool.'

'The Dolpins have had a few landsmen. Steve Shull was a linebacker at the same time Newman played. And you remember Jay Fiedler?'

'The quarterback?' Bobby said. 'He stunk.'

'So did A. J. Feely, and he's not a member of the tribe.'

'So what's with Mr. Jones, anyway? Why's he letting off Jews and blacks?'

The blacks and the Jews.

Something came back to Steve, something from the day he'd deposed Pinky Luber. The slippery bastard was complaining about the jury in the first Willie Mays trial, the last case he lost.

'They must have come straight from an ACLU meeting. All shvartzers from Liberty City and Yids from Aventura.'

It didn't mean anything then, but it did now. Something else Luber said that day, too.

'You can't trust juries.'

Now Steve knew exactly what Luber and Jones were doing. 'Bobby, what's the most important part of trial?'

'Jury selection. You always say so.'

'Reggie Jones is helping Pinky Luber stack the jury. Knocking off blacks and Jews, the most defense-oriented jurors. The blacks he leaves on are all establishment guys. The defense lawyer has no choice but to accept them. Otherwise, he'll have an all-white panel, and God knows what'll go on in the jury room.'

Jones' conduct was illegal, of course, a deprivation of the defendant's constitutional rights. But why was he doing it? No way the young deputy clerk came up with this scheme on his own. This had Pinky's sweaty palms all over it. But so far, it didn't seem to involve Steve's father.

There had to be something more. Something Dad was doing. Otherwise, what's he afraid of?

Steve fast-forwarded the tape to the beginning of voir dire. He'd seen it once, but this time he wouldn't take his eyes off his father. He'd study his old man, watch every gesture, listen to every word. Part of him hoped that his father had been unaware of the conspiracy taking place right under his gavel. But another part, coming from a dark place of repressed anger and alienation, yearned for something altogether different. Part of Steve wanted proof that he was right and his father wrong. Proof that the Honorable Herbert T. Solomon was considerably less than he held himself out to be and his son was considerably more.

Forty

THE PRINCESS VS. THE QUEEN