“You got lipstick?”
“Yeah.”
“Purse or desk?”
“Both.”
I watched as Nellie pulled my desk drawer open with a jerk. Two lipsticks rattled in the pen tray.
She grabbed one, pulled the top off, squinted down the tube. “This will work. It’s a matte, nice natural tone. You don’t want anything too bright, too wet. Gotta look dignified.”
I didn’t argue. Partly because she was right. I needed the footage. I didn’t want to look flashy. And the faster we could get around to it, the sooner they’d all leave. I wanted to eat a hard-boiled egg and wash it down with aspartame.
At Nellie’s direction, I sat at the bench. The photographer tinkered with the lighting while Nellie worked on my hair. The commercial director walked up to the bench and handed a file off to me.
“Smile!” A young woman was snapping still pictures with a Canon.
I did try to smile but suspected I had acaught in the headlightsexpression.
I was still gripping the file folder I’d been given. I opened it, curious to see what it contained. In truth, I expected to see a bill for services rendered.
But no. It contained a short script. I quickly scanned the lines.
Slapped that file down on the bench. With Nellie’s brush tugging at my scalp, I was close to losing my cool.
“What the hell?” I lifted the page, read aloud. “‘I’m Judge Stone, and I’m tough on crime.’ Who came up with that? It sounds like I’m the county DA’s puppet! It’s not accurate, you understandme? Because I’m tough on everybody. Everyone! That’s what I intend to say.”
The director squinted through round tortoiseshell glasses. “Judge, I seriously advise you to just go along. Deliver the script exactly as it was written. Okay?” He waved Nellie away, saying, “Hair’s fine. She looks good. Let’s see if we can get this on the first take. Judge Stone, are you ready?”
“No. Not ready for this.”
Off somewhere to the side, Nellie groaned. I kept my gaze on the man in charge of the ad. “I prefer to be authentic. That’s how I want to proceed with this.”
He gave me a sad kind of smile. “But do you want to win, Judge? Be reelected? If so, you need to go with the script. Just read it aloud.”
“I don’t think you know me very well.” I was about to say more. He cut me off.
“Maybe not, but I know about political ads. If you want to keep your job, you need to show your support for law-and-order constituents. Businesspeople, property owners. Criminals don’t vote, you know what I’m saying? You’re going to need the endorsement of the chamber of commerce. You can’t win this race without it. In local elections, they control the votes and the money.”
I should’ve eaten that apple. Maybe if my blood sugar had been stable, I’d have held on to my temper and controlled my tongue.
Because I slapped both hands on the bench and said, “Fuck that. People in this county know me. I’m running on my record.”
I tore the script in two before walking off the bench and back into chambers.
CHAPTER
56
Picking a jury is damned hard work.
The process took three days. Over that time, we examined most of the prospective jurors we’d summoned to the courthouse. I asked questions. I gave the attorneys for the prosecution and the defense the opportunity to inquire.
We directed the questions to the group as a whole. When it was necessary, we examined jurors individually, separate and apart from the others.
I was careful to listen to the panelists, to take a reasonable approach. If they were sick, or infirm, or had pressing reasons to bow out, I let them go. If they had attitudes inconsistent with an open mind—people who believed, for example, that a person charged with a crime must be guilty of something—I dismissed them for cause. If they’d already made up their minds and wouldn’t base a verdict on the evidence alone, I showed them the door.
Finally, we compiled a list of twenty-eight prospective jurors who were competent to try the case. The lawyers came to the bench, and I gave each of them a list of the twenty-eight names.
