Trial Courtship. Laura Abbot
ethnic combinations and, undoubtedly, a wide range of views, biases and experience. She’d visited with several during the break. Most, though not happy to have their daily routines interrupted, viewed the situation as a necessary service.
But she couldn’t help noticing the intense man by the phone—the same one who’d been annoyed when the bailiff had taken his laptop. His hawklike eyes were narrowed, his chin thrust forward. Except for the frown on his face, he might have been attractive—close-cropped black hair, ears flat against his head, dark eyes smoldering under thick brows. Broad-shouldered, about five-eleven she judged.
The bailiffs words, “All rise,” brought her to her feet. She stood respectfully while the svelte judge made her way to the bench and sat down.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will proceed with voir dire—that is, the questioning of potential jurors. As the clerk reads off your juror numbers, please take seats in the jury box. The rest will wait and, in numerical sequence, replace any juror excused for cause.”
Andrea clutched the children’s books she’d brought from her store to read in the event she wasn’t selected right away. During the selection process, she became increasingly apprehensive. What if this was some technical case about money laundering or insurance fraud? Although she was a good businesswoman, she didn’t know much about such things; however, she rationalized, neither did most people.
“Juror five.”
Her number! Within minutes, the bailiff, who looked like an adorable Chinese pug, had escorted fourteen of them to seats in the jury box. Two men conversed at one of the counsel tables, and a woman seated at the other table made notes on a yellow legal pad. The attorneys, no doubt.
The judge tapped her gavel. “This case involves a juvenile accused of aggravated murder.”
Murder? Andrea gulped. The judge continued, “Are any of you acquainted with me or with the two prosecutors Mr. Bedford and Mr. Raines, or with the defense attorney, Ms. Lamb? If so, please rise.”
A balding man with a small mustache, who was a member of the judge’s temple congregation, was dismissed. When she asked if anyone had ever had a relative or friend who had been the victim of a violent crime, she excused another.
After the judge explained that a juvenile could not be executed for murder in Ohio, she questioned each remaining person about his or her feelings about life imprisonment.
One woman became quite agitated. “I simply couldn’t shut anybody away like that. It’s so cruel. Suppose he was innocent? Why, I couldn’t live with myself.”
By contrast, a man dressed in overalls and a faded flannel shirt rubbed his hands together. “We gotta git control of our society. I say lock up all these crim’nals and throw away the key!” Both were excused.
Andrea’s turn came next. Punishment was a serious issue she had long debated, without coming to any conclusion. She chose her words carefully. “I would be extremely reluctant to sentence a fellow human being to life in prison unless I felt the facts warranted such a sentence, but I also believe that the interests of victims’ families must be considered.”
When the scowling man from the pay phone was questioned, he sighed audibly. It was as if he desperately wanted out, but found himself unable to lie. “Yes, there are circumstances under which I could recommend a life sentence.”
Questioning continued past noon. After exercising several peremptory challenges, the attorneys conferred with the judge, then sat down, seemingly satisfied.
The judge picked up some papers, then addressed those in the courtroom. “The twelve jurors and two alternates will please remain. The rest of you are excused to report back to the fourth floor. Thank you all.”
Andrea couldn’t believe it. She was a juror in a murder case. She felt awed, nervous and slightly sick.
TONY’S STOMACH GROWLED. He checked his watch. Twelve thirty-five. Who was the prisoner here, anyway? Would they ever break for lunch? He couldn’t guess what Harrison Wainright would have done in his shoes, but when the time had come for Tony to give his views on life imprisonment, although he could’ve uttered some outrageous opinion and been excused—at least from this case—he couldn’t do it. He’d sworn an oath. And he’d told the truth.
Tony balled his fists. Hell. A murder trial! As the eleventh juror selected, he’d come close to escaping. However, he might as well reconcile himself. No use fighting the inevitable. But he wished he could be sure Barry Fuller was ready for the challenge this situation would present. He was a promising addition to the firm, but he had a good deal to learn.
Tony glanced around at his fellow jurors. An interesting crew. A beefy older man in a vintage Cleveland Browns sweatshirt; a short, stylishly dressed black woman; an elderly lady with thick glasses and pursed lips; and the attractive blonde he’d noticed earlier, the one who had attentively listened to every word Her Honor uttered. What the hell was that in her lap? He craned his neck to read the title of the top book in her stack—Jeremy June Bug’s Joke. He chuckled to himself. She must have the literary tastes of a rug rat.
How long would this case take? Perhaps it would be cut-and-dried. A couple of days max. Maybe his situation wasn’t so bad. After all, he could be stuck for an entire week out there with the unchosen. Spoken like a true compromiser.
“...and Bailiff Schmidt will suggest nearby restaurants. I admonish you not to discuss any aspects of the case outside the jury room. Please be seated back here at one forty-five for opening arguments.” With a bang of the gavel, Judge Blumberg departed.
Like a bunch of schoolkids, they were marched from the courtroom by Bailiff Schmidt. The saving grace for Tony was that, as he left, he found himself behind the blonde, who had a decidedly interesting sway to her walk—the kind that makes any red-blooded man want to reach out. and...
“Got a light?” The man in the Browns shirt fell in beside him. “I’m dyin’ for a cigarette.”
“No.” Tony wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
“Hope this thing doesn’t drag on long. I can’t afford to be off work.”
“Yeah.”
They ambled along in silence. Then Tony’s companion poked him with his elbow. “Nice little piece of tail ahead of us.”
For some unaccountable reason, the first thought that flashed through Tony’s mind was, “She’s mine. I saw her first.” This guy irritated the hell out of him. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Ya dead or something?”
“You might say that.” Dead. That’s what he’d be if he couldn’t pull his negotiating team together, double up on their assignments and hope all hell didn’t break loose at the office in the next week!
CHAPTER TWO
NOT ALL OF THE JURORS had seemed enthusiastic, but Andrea had been delighted when someone suggested they eat together and get acquainted. She sat at a long table between a pleasant African-American woman named Shayla Brown and Dottie Dettweiler, a grandmotherly lady with the wrinkled face of a crafts fair apple-head doll.
Dottie, looking to Andrea for reassurance, fingered the menu nervously. “I hope we’ll be finished before Thanksgiving. My kids and grandkids are coming, and I’ve got lots of baking to do.”
“We have a week before then, but I have no notion how long a murder trial takes,” Andrea said.
Shayla leaned forward. “My brother used to be on the police force. Maybe he’ll have an idea.”
“It probably depends on the evidence,” Andrea suggested.
“But it is kinda exciting,” Dottie conceded. “Did you ever watch People’s Court? I was pretty good at figuring out what the judge oughta do.”
“No, but I watched the O.J. trial,” Shayla