They filed into the jury box, and I gave them the instruction: Alabama’s version of the dynamite charge. They wore sullen faces. They all looked tired—plumb worn out, even the younger ones.
After Ross escorted them back to the jury room, I returned to chambers. I wouldn’t do the dynamite a second time. Some people are critical of judges who use it. They say it’s inherently coercive, and pressures jurors to give in to the majority.
When Luna pounded on the door an hour later, it appeared that the dynamite was effective.
“Verdict, Judge!”
Back into the robe. I waited for a bit before I entered. Let the parties and the press and the public settle down first. Luna rapped on the door. That was my cue.
After I settled into my chair, I directed Ross to bring the jury into court. That gave me a moment to check out the courtroom. The press was there, in full force. We’d lost some curiosity seekers, but the most dedicated activists on both sides were present. Ready to blow up if they didn’t like the outcome.
As the twelve jurors filed into the jury box, I focused my attention on them. Out of long habit, I tried to read their faces.Old-timers claimed that you can predict a jury’s verdict if you correctly read the signs. But I didn’t know about that. Seemed like there was a fifty/fifty chance.
I hoped they’d taken the case to heart, that they’d done the right thing. But it was hard to predict.
And in any case, we’d know in a moment.
The foreperson was female. You’d think that would be a good sign—a positive omen for the defense. Experience had taught me not to rely on that. Although women were inclined to acquit in general, female jurors were often unsympathetic to their own sex in criminal cases.
“Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
The foreperson spoke up. “We have, Your Honor.”
She was holding a sheet of paper: the verdict form. I nodded at Ross Carr. The bailiff took the paper from her and handed it to me.
I read it silently first. Rubbed my eyes and read it again, though there was no mistake. It was set down before me, in black and white. And signed by the jurors.
I took in a deep breath. Read the verdict aloud.
“We, the undersigned, find the defendant, Bria Gaines, guilty.”
The ink on the page commenced to swim before my eyes. I blinked and read: “We recommend a sentence of imprisonment of ten years.”
So they’d compromised on the penalty. The jurors who had been hanging up on Bria’s behalf switched their votes to guilty in exchange for the minimum penalty of ten years’ imprisonment. They split the baby, like King Solomon.
The courtroom was buzzing; faint cheers from one section, indignant voices all around. It didn’t seem that the compromise verdict satisfied many folks. The DA was on his feet, shouting to make himself heard.
“Your Honor! The State hereby requests that the defendant’s bond be revoked and that she be taken into custody pending sentencing in this case!”
Ten years.
Even with early parole consideration, she’d be locked in prison for years. Her medical license would be revoked. The course of her life irretrievably altered. Her liberty stolen from her.
Because she wanted to save Nova Jones.
The noise level was rising. Both of the lawyers at the prosecution table were on their feet, demanding that I put Bria Gaines behind bars immediately.
I picked up the gavel. Slammed it hard. Cut my eyes at Reeves and Lindquist.
When I spoke, everyone could hear me.
“Sit down.”
CHAPTER
79
When I’d first opened the verdict form and read the jury’s decision, it was a shock to my system. Felt like I’d stuck my finger in a light socket, that kind of jolt.
