Trial and Error

“Dolphins are the bomb-sniffing dogs of the ocean. They use echolocation to work in total darkness. They can dive a hundred times without rest.”

“This Cetacean Intelligence mishegoss. Where’s it headquartered?”

“The Naval Warfare Systems Center in San Diego.”

“Bingo! Sanders’ last stop before retirement. And that medal he got for defusing mines in the Gulf…”

“He had to be working with the dolphins,” Bobby said, with the certainty of a boy genius.

Steve turned to Victoria with a triumphant look. “See? What did I tell you?”

“You told me you were kidnapped by two thugs. What’s that have to do with dolphins in the Persian Gulf?”

“It proves Sanders was never an animal rights guy. He risked the dolphins’ lives on every mission. True believers like Nash would never do that. They think it’s unethical to ride horses. They hate the idea of German shepherds working with cops, of using canaries in mines. Nobody in the Animal Liberation Movement would ever risk one of his pals being turned into dolphin burger.”

“Gross, Uncle Steve,” Bobby said.

“Sorry. Can’t you see it, Vic? Sanders knew everything about dolphins, including how to choose the smartest ones.”

“Spunky and Misty,” Bobby chimed in.

“The stars of the show,” Steve continued. “The best-trained dolphins in the park. Maybe the best on the East Coast.”

“So what was Sanders going to do with them?” Victoria asked. “And what’s it have to do with the guys who grabbed you?”

“Still working on that. But when I figure it out, I’ll bet all the pieces of the puzzle fit together.”

“I suggest you do your figuring in a hurry,” she said. “We pick a jury in the morning.”

Twenty-six

On Cat’s Feet

Victoria knew precisely what Steve was doing when she spotted him at 7:45 A.M. in the jurors’ parking lot.

Lurking. Tying his shoes. Pretending to smoke a cigarette. But really spying. Checking out the bumper stickers.

“Ban Fur.” Defense juror.

“My Kid Can Beat Up Your Honor Student.” Prosecution juror.

She watched as Steve sidled up to car windows, peeking inside. She could practically hear his voice.

“People leave clues about themselves everywhere, including their car seats.”

A wad of traffic tickets. Defense juror.

Guns amp; Ammo magazine. Prosecution juror.

A book by Rush Limbaugh. Simpleminded juror.

If Steve could get into trunks and glove compartments, he’d do it. Watching him, Victoria almost smiled. He made a big deal about spending so little time on trial preparation. But he prepped, all right, in his own devious and cockeyed way.

Now, just after nine A.M., Judge Gridley was perched on the bench. The spectators lounged in the gallery. Steve manned the defense table. He’d cut his dark hair so that he no longer resembled a beach bum. In his trial uniform-a pin-striped charcoal suit, pale blue shirt, and striped tie-he almost looked like a real lawyer. Gerald Nash sat alongside, a clean yellow pad in front of him, as if he might write useful notes in his own defense. Victoria, surrounded by a picket fence of files and books, sat alone at the prosecution table.

Voir dire.

She knew every single one of Steve’s tricks in picking a jury. His strengths, his weaknesses, his stunts, his surprises. She’d listened to him, learned from him.

“Watch the jurors walk into the courtroom. Study their body language. See who’s a leader and who’s a follower. Eavesdrop on them. Pick their pockets. Steal their purses.”

Figuratively speaking, he meant. Or did he?

Selecting a jury against Steve was like playing singles against Jackie Tuttle, her best bud. Jackie had a smooth, strong forehand and an okay backhand, but she was weak at the net. If Victoria hit to Jackie’s backhand, then lured her to the net with a drop shot, she could blast passing shots for winners four times out of five.

Likewise, she knew Steve’s game by heart.

“When you’re picking a jury, don’t forget that they’re also picking you. They’re deciding which lawyer they like better.”

She’d learned so well, lately Steve had asked her to take the lead in questioning. For whatever reason, she made a better first impression. Okay, she knew the reason. She was gentle and kind, and it showed. Steve could be overly confrontational. Sure, he was graceful on his feet, but it was the grace of- God help me-a shark, cutting through the well of the courtroom, eager to bite off the head of a contrary witness, opposing counsel, or even the judge.

She knew something else about Steve’s tactics, too. The weaker his case, the more outrageous his stunts. Meaning he would misbehave while questioning prospective jurors today. She didn’t know how, but it was inevitable, like pesky mosquitoes following summer storms.

“Don’t worry about jumping offsides. Sometimes the officials don’t catch you.”

Another of his lessons. At the first opportunity, he would start arguing his case. Voir dire-the questioning of jurors-is intended to detect prejudice or bias. Some trial lawyers wait until the opening statement to start planting seeds of their argument, which is still too soon, according to proper procedure. They do it because studies show that a sizeable percentage of jurors make up their minds in opening statements, before the first witness takes the stand.

But to Steve, opening statement was too late.

He starts arguing his case with “Good morning, Madame ‘Persecutor.’”

Victoria would be on high alert. At least as prosecutor, she would start first. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she began.

She carefully framed her questions to explain the highly technical charge of felony murder. “Do all of you understand that the defendant can be found guilty, even though someone else pulled the trigger?”

Numbers one through twelve nodded eagerly, a jury box of bobbleheads.

“It’s never enough for the sheep to baa in unison. Get in their faces, one-on-one, and challenge their beliefs.”

Steve again. Never trusting the voice of the crowd. He was right. You needed to separate the individuals from the pack, divide the leaders from the followers, the smart ones from the dummies.

“If you don’t know who’s gonna be foreman by the time the jury takes its oath, you haven’t been paying attention.”

Victoria spent the next hour going through her prepared questions and listening intently to each answer. Then she reviewed her chart. It was a twelve-grid document with sliding tabs where she could slip prospective jurors in and out of their slots. Number three had a quizzical look on his face. Nobuchi Fukui, CPA. College educated, married, three children. Owned his own home in Kendall, commuted downtown to his accounting firm. A decent prosecution juror.

“Mr. Fukui,” she said. “A man doesn’t pull the trigger, but he’s charged with murder. Does that rule seem harsh to you?”

“Not at all. Not if the fellow precipitated the violence. People have to take responsibility for their actions. That’s what’s wrong with this country.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fukui.” Not just a decent prosecution juror. A great prosecution juror. She turned to the judge. “Your Honor, we tender the panel to Mr. Solomon.”