Trial Courtship. Laura Abbot
would even etch a smile on the granite features of Harrison Wainwright.
The elevator stopped, and Tony stepped into a nearly vacant hallway. He took a deep breath, then entered the large jury commission room where, during the orientation, he’d learned that his only out depended on a trial judge’s dismissing him. He ground his teeth in frustration. If the gods smiled, maybe he’d get on a jury right away and quickly fulfill his civic obligation.
Miraculously, he was one of the first to be sent to a courtroom. He gave himself a mental high five, gathered up his belongings and followed a uniformed deputy who shepherded a group of about thirty upstairs to the courtroom. There the deputy directed them to spectators’ seats in the large, high-ceilinged chamber, paneled with vertical strips of wood. A man with the facial features of a tortoise and the build of a fireplug introduced himself as the bailiff, then approached Tony and pointed at his laptop computer. “You, sir. That’ll have to go. No electronic devices are allowed in the courtroom.”
“Other people brought books and magazines. What’s the difference? I have work to do.” The woman sitting next to him shied away as if to disassociate herself from him.
“Today your work is this court.” The bailiff gestured impatiently. “Give it to me.”
“Now just a darn minute—”
“You can pick it up after today’s session. You got a beeper or cell phone?”
“You’re going to take the phone, too?”
“Judge’s policy. You don’t wanna be in contempt. Just hand them over, sir.” There was a definite acidic twist to the “sir.”
Reluctantly, Tony relinquished his laptop and phone. What was he supposed to do during down times? Count ceiling tiles?
“All rise,” the bailiff bellowed. The assembled group shuffled to their feet. “The Cuyahoga County Court of Common Pleas is now in session, the Honorable Hilda Blumberg presiding.” A female judge? He’d have to rethink his strategy for getting excused. Wearing a judicial robe, a tall severe-looking woman with straight salt-and-pepper hair pulled back and secured at the nape of her neck, entered, nodded unsmilingly at the potential jurors, then settled into the large leather chair behind the bench. “Be seated,” the bailiff barked.
In a dry, matter-of-fact voice, the judge addressed them. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming today. Before we begin, let me introduce those in the courtroom.” She nodded toward the laptop confiscator who studied them through slitted eyes. “My bailiff, Hershel Schmidt, and Stephanie Reedy, the stenographer. This morning we begin voir dire. The court has several cases awaiting trial. Some of you will be seated on this jury. The others will remain in the pool until you are selected for another trial or are excused after one week.”
One week! Did she expect him to sit for days twiddling his thumbs? He tensed like an anxious prizefighter awaiting the bell.
The judge then began a lengthy explanation of the tradition of English jurisprudence, emphasizing the responsibility of citizens to serve on juries willingly and with open minds. He hadn’t been so fidgety since old man Pickins’s civics lectures in the eighth grade. He checked the time. Jeez! He’d already been in the courtroom thirty minutes. Then something the judge said got his attention.
...so it should be evident that this court does not take a jury summons lightly. Some of you, no doubt, expect to get excused. There are few, and I emphasize few, legitimate reasons persuasive enough for me to excuse you. However, after the bailiff calls the roll, I will declare a short recess during which I will ask those of you who believe you have compelling arguments to come forward. I will listen to a brief explanation of your individual circumstance.” She nodded peremptorily at the bailiff, who began intoning names.
Compelling arguments. Okay, Your Honor, get ready. As the monotone voice continued through the roll, Tony sized up the judge. Definitely a no-nonsense type. He’d lay out the imperatives of his situation and prevail upon her pragmatism. She’d never go for the emotional or personal; she’d require hard-hitting facts.
“Anthony Stanislov Urbanski?”
“Here.” Nearly at the end of the list. He brushed his pants, tugged on his shirt cuffs, then adjusted his tie. He was ready for her.
After another few names, the judge announced the recess. Tony walked briskly toward the bailiff, who was already surrounded by several impatient potential jurors.
The bailiff checked names and organized them in a line. The judge glanced up from the papers she’d been studying and beckoned them, one by one, to the bench. She sat, a good three feet above them. He recognized the tactic. Intimidation.
As he edged closer, he caught snatches of conversation. “Do you have help at home, Mr. Smith?”
“...my daughter-in-law, but she works nights...”
“You’re excused. Next?”
The young man right in front of him seemed cocky.
“Ain’t no way da broad’s gonna stop me,” he mumbled to Tony out of the side of his mouth. “Yer Honor, ya see, it’s like dis. I’m reportin’ Friday to Fort Sill. Basic training.”
“Artillery, Mr. Tonaretti?... Good luck to you. Excused.”
Let’s make it three for three, lady.
The judge didn’t look up. “Mr. Urbanski?”
“Your honor, I represent Great Lakes Management Group in a delicate business negotiation, scheduled to begin shortly—”
“How shortly?”
“December 2.”
“That’s two weeks away.” She still hadn’t looked up.
“This is a matter of extreme importance, involving some influential companies. I know you’ve heard of—”
“Your point, Mr. Urbanski?”
“I’m critical to this negotiation and the timing couldn’t be worse for me or for the interests I represent. I’d be more than honored to serve another time,” he really meant that, “but right now—”
“I assume others are working with you on this project?”
“Yes, but—”
She finally raised her eyes and stared coldly at him. “No business interests should supersede your duty as an American citizen. Request denied.”
Blood drained from Tony’s face and his feet remained glued to the floor.
“Move along, sir.” The smug-looking bailiff nudged his arm.
Tony stalked out of the courtroom to the pay phone. Hell, he couldn’t even use his cellular. He dropped in the change, then slapped a hand against the wall. This was a major complication. “Barry, listen, I’ve been detained at the courthouse. It might be late afternoon before I can get back to the office. Could you stick around this evening?”
“Be glad to. What’s up?”
Tony didn’t want to think about what he’d now have to delegate or about how much depended on the unseasoned Fuller. “I need to reassign some work on this DataTech deal.”
“Do you need me to notify Wainwright?”
That was the last thing he needed. “No. Leave him to me. I’ll call him later.” He slammed down the receiver and stood scowling, studying his fellow jurors who, incomprehensibly, chatted animatedly, even with apparent enthusiasm. Surely he wasn’t the only one who had other things to do.
Maybe he shouldn’t worry. Not even the most incompetent lawyer would want him on a jury in his current mood. The attorneys might still dismiss him. He unclenched his fists and for the first time since entering the courthouse, regained his optimism.
AFTER THE RECESS, Andrea took her assigned seat near the