Stepping out, I climbed the steps to the bench, took my place. “You may be seated.”
The DA and his co-counsel, Eleanor Lindquist, sat at the counsel table positioned closest to the jury box. They gave off a confident vibe in their navy blue business suits, the weight of the cloth and the width of the pinstripes identical. I wondered whether they’d plotted out the color-coordinated clothing. It felt kinda weird.
At the defense table, Benjamin Meyers was projecting positive energy, a noble strategy. But one glance at Bria Gaines confirmedthat she wasn’t feeling it. Dressed all in black, with her eyes downcast, she looked like she was attending a funeral.
Her own funeral.
I sat up straight in my high-backed chair and surveyed the courtroom gallery, trying to get a feel for the panel we’d summoned by random selection.
Lord have mercy.Prospective jurors were crammed into my courtroom, elbow to elbow, hip to hip. We’d summoned two hundred prospective jurors to the courthouse that morning. Ross had packed about a hundred into the courtroom—a tight squeeze. The remainder waited outside: in the hallways, the basement, any place they could find an empty chair.
There is a set of jury instructions, statements of law and procedure, that the judge is required to read aloud to the jurors, or prospective jurors, at designated times.
“Good morning, y’all. I surely appreciate you coming to the courthouse this morning in response to your call for jury duty. We’re set to try a criminal case. The State of Alabama has charged Bria Gaines with the Class A felony of performing an abortion. The case will be tried by a jury. And that’s why y’all have been called in. Our justice system can’t function without your participation and cooperation.”
Some of my lines are written ahead of time. Doesn’t mean I can’t add my own two cents.
Time to walk around,I thought. The citizens were restless, nervous, edgy. I needed to put them at ease. Otherwise, we’d never find twelve people who were willing to stick around for the trial. Plus two extras, just in case.
Rising, I left the bench and walked down the center aisle that divides the spectator area in half.
“I’m Judge Mary Stone. For the past six years, I’ve served BullockCounty as circuit judge. Let me fill you in on my job in this courtroom. It’s my responsibility to make sure this case is handled fairly. There are two sides in this criminal case: the prosecution and the defense. Just so you know, my role here isn’t to make either side happy.”
A pair of young people—one man, one woman—exchanged a look when I made that claim. Then the woman rolled her eyes.
The hell? I paused, waited for her to focus on me. Gave her a stern glare before I moved on. “My role—my only role, you might even call it my obsession—is to ensure a fair trial. To protect the rights of the parties and see to it that the law and procedure are followed. And that’s precisely what I’m going to do.”
I’d reached the back of the courtroom, near the closed doors. When I turned to face them, most folks had shifted around in their seats, or peered over their shoulders, to see what I was doing.
Good. Loosened them up a little.
Next job: Loosen up their tongues.
“To have a fair trial, we’re going to need to pick a jury. And we’ll be asking questions to help us do that job. I’ll make inquiries. I get to go first; one of the perks of being a judge, right?”
Pause for a chuckle. It got a small laugh, which was fine. I wasn’t trying to bring the house down; this wasn’t stand-up comedy. A woman’s life was at stake.
“The DA and the defendant’s attorney will have the opportunity to ask questions, too. It will take a while, so let’s all settle in. Try to get comfortable. I know those wooden benches are pretty hard. You’d think after a hundred and fifty years, somebody would’ve thought about padding the seats.”
Another chuckle followed me as I returned to the bench. Instructed the potential jurors regarding voir dire. Placed them under oath. The questions began.
“I’ll start. I’ve already introduced myself. The State is represented by the DA, Robert Reeves, and Assistant Attorney General Eleanor Lindquist. Anybody in this room acquainted with the DA, or his co-counsel? Or related to them?”
We lost some panelists. No surprise there. Reeves was a native of Union Springs. A distant cousin of Reeves was in the room. I excused her immediately. Some neighbors, people who knew Reeves from school, and others who knew his wife. Four guys sitting together, from Reeves’s weekly men’s prayer breakfast group. Good God, I thought—what were the odds of that? I almost said it out loud.
No one claimed to know Eleanor Lindquist. Same with Benjamin Meyers, the defense attorney from Atlanta. But the defendant herself—a different matter. A couple dozen hands went up.
I called on the nearest one first: a man seated in the second row. “Yes, sir? Your name, please. And the number you were assigned.”
“Judge, I’m Abram Wagoner. They gave me the number 17.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wagoner. How are you acquainted with the defendant, Dr. Gaines?”
He wore a conflicted expression. “She wasn’t my doctor. It was my wife, Charlaine. I took her to see Dr. Gaines two or three times before she passed.”
I nodded. “So sorry for your loss, Mr. Wagoner.” Watched him as he cut a quick look in Dr. Gaines’s direction. She had turned in her seat and faced him. I couldn’t see her expression.
I said, “Mr. Wagoner, will the fact that Dr. Gaines cared for your wife keep you from being fair and impartial as a juror in this trial?”
