done, that was the most important thing a lawyer could do in voir dire. And Granny was doing it, effectively and effortlessly. Like a pro.
Which was bad news for Ben. And George Zakin.
Ben didn’t get his chance at the jury until well into the afternoon. Granny worked them for over five hours, through the lunch break. More than a little excessive, by Ben’s standards, but of course, in some jurisdictions, voir dire in a capital murder case went on for days. He decided to count his blessings.
Nonetheless, five hours was five hours, and by the time Ben got them, they were sick and tired of being questioned. That, too, Ben realized, might well be part of Granny’s strategy. These people came to court to hear a murder case, and they wanted to get started, not monkey around with more lawyer questions. Ben would have to tread a treacherous tightrope-doing his duty to his client by asking the questions that had to be asked without turning the jurors against him.
Granny had already covered most of the directly relevant questions. Which was just as well. Ben had learned from experience that he actually gained more from questions that didn’t appear to have any obvious connection to the case at hand, questions that just allowed him to learn about the jurors themselves. So he tossed out a few softballs for starters, asking them about their hobbies, their children, their cars. The jurors were politely tolerant, but Ben knew that wouldn’t last forever.
Ben quizzed an elderly man, one Conrad Sweeney. He was wearing suspenders with a bolo tie. His craggy face seemed set in a perpetual grimace.
“Mr. Sweeney,” Ben asked, “what do you do now that you’re retired?”
“Damn little,” Sweeney grunted.
“You must do something to pass the time.”
“Mostly I sit around and watch everyone else go to work.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Nope. Nothing else.”
“You’re sure?”
Sweeney began to look annoyed. “Damn right I’m sure. I should know, shouldn’t I?”
“There must be something you like to do in your spare time.”
“Well,” Sweeney said, “I like to smoke marijuana.”
Ben blinked. “
“Oh yeah. I like to smoke me a few reefers, then go out and ride my Harley. Mostly I cruise McKinley, check out the hookers, keep my eyes peeled for something sweet. You know how it is.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Yeah,” Sweeney said, “I am, actually. Had you going, though, didn’t I?”
The courtroom exploded with laughter. Ben felt his face burning. This was just great. He was barely getting started, and he’d already been made an object of ridicule by a sixty-seven-year-old juror.
Ben turned toward the bench, hoping Judge Pickens would bring the courtroom back to order and admonish Sweeney to cut out the high jinks. Unfortunately, Pickens was too busy guffawing himself.
No matter what he did, Ben realized, he would be the outsider. Everyone else in the courtroom belonged in Magic Valley; he didn’t. Ben had heard stories about lawyers being “hometowned” when they left the big city to try cases in rural districts. He just hoped he wasn’t about to experience it firsthand.
Ben tried a different approach. “Mr. Sweeney, have you ever been called to a jury before?”
Sweeney shook his head. “Not once in sixty-seven years. Guess my luck finally ran out.”
That one got an appreciative chuckle from some of the other jurors.
“Would you be pleased if you were chosen to serve on this jury?”
“Well, I’d be more pleased if it paid better.”
“Is being on this jury something you want to do?”
“Oh, I suppose if I’m called, I’ll do my duty and all that.”
“But is it something you want to do?”
“I don’t know. How much longer do you think you’re going to be asking these fool questions?”
Another explosion of laughter, even louder than before. Ben tried to get a grip on himself. He was playing straight man for a would-be comedian-not an ideal situation. He decided it was best to move on.
He shifted his attention to Marjorie Preston, a middle-aged woman with big hair and a print dress, both of which looked as if they might have come from the June Cleaver style book. She worked part-time as a checkout clerk at Canfield’s Grocery. “Mrs. Preston, can you tell me about your job?”
Her expression didn’t seem to change as she spoke. “Oh, it’s very boring.”
Ben smiled. “As boring as this voir dire?”
“Oh, heavens no. Not that boring.”
Well, he asked for that one, Ben thought, as once again he bathed in the laughter of the assemblage. “Mrs. Preston, do you understand that many witnesses will be called to the stand in the course of this trial?”
“I suppose it’s inevitable,” she sighed.
“Do you understand why witnesses are called before the jury?”
“So we can hear what they say and try to dope out whether they’re telling the truth.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to do that, Mrs. Preston?”
Her chin rose. “I’ve seen a liar or two in my time, if that’s what you mean.”
“Do you think it’s important to tell the truth?”
“I certainly do. You know where liars go.” She extended her thumb and pointed downward.
Ben didn’t even need to glance at Christina for this one. This lady was definitely off the jury.
He switched to the next man in line, Ken Whately, a farmer who lived about thirty miles outside Magic Valley. He was wearing scruffy blue jeans and cowboy boots. Ben assumed he checked his ten-gallon hat at the door.
Ben asked him a few preliminary questions about his farm. For once, the juror seemed not only cooperative, but garrulous. He took Ben through the whole planting season, crop by crop. He described all his machinery, down to the last tractor. He quoted the buy and sell prices for every harvest for the last five years.
“I can see you take your farming very seriously,” Ben said, the first time the man came up for air. “Are you going to be able to concentrate on this trial or will your mind be out in the field?”
Whately frowned. “It’s too hot for my mind to be out in the field.”
“Right.” Ben scanned the list Christina had given him of
The first was a delicate subject, one he preferred not to raise in voir dire. But since he wasn’t sure yet whether he would put Zak on the stand, it needed to be covered. “Mr. Whately, you’re familiar with the Fifth Amendment, aren’t you?
Whately appeared a bit uncertain. “That’s … one of those amendments to the Constitution. Isn’t it?”
“Right. You’ve probably heard about people taking the Fifth?”
“Oh.” His face brightened a bit. “That’s what crooks say when they don’t want to talk.”
Ben tilted his head to one side. “Not exactly. It’s important that you as jurors realize that everyone has a right to avoid self-incrimination. No one can be forced to testify against himself. And no one can infer anything good or bad from a party’s decision not to testify.”
Whately nodded slowly. “I guess that’s right.”
“So let me ask you a question. What would you think if the trial was over and the defendant had not taken the stand?”
“I would assume his lawyer had a damn good reason for not letting him testify.”
There was a sprinkling of chuckles. “Well, you see, sir, that’s what we can’t permit. As the judge will instruct you later in this trial, the jury is not permitted to draw any conclusion from the fact that the defendant has not testified. Not good or bad. Do you understand?”
“I … guess so.
“And do you think you can do it?”
“I’ll give it my best.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Whately, but that isn’t good enough. The judge will require you to answer that you can, or he will have you removed. We must have a jury that will honor the law. And that means that no inference can be
