Odette folds her arms. “As of when?”
“About a half hour ago.”
We all stare at Howard, waiting for him to introduce himself. He looks at me, his lips pressed firmly together.You don’t speak to the judge unless I’ve told you to.“Speak,” I mutter.
He holds out a hand. “Howard Moore. It’s an honor, Your…um…Honor.”
I roll my eyes.
Judge Thunder produces a huge stack of completed questionnaires, which are sent out to people who are called for jury duty. They are full of practical information, like where the recipient lives and where he or she works. But they also include pointed questions:Do you have any problems with the presumption of innocence? If a defendant doesn’t testify, do you assume he is hiding something? Do you understand that the Constitution gives the defendant the right to not say anything? If the State proves this case beyond reasonable doubt, would you have any moral qualms about convicting the defendant?
He splits the pile in half. “Ms. Lawton, you take this bunch for four hours; and Ms. McQuarrie, you take these. We’ll reconvene at oneP.M., switch piles, and then voir dire begins in two days.”
As I drive Howard back to our office, I explain what we are looking for. “A solid defense juror is an older woman. They have the most empathy, the most experience, and they’re less judgmental, and they’re really hard on young punks like Turk Bauer. And beware of Millennials.”
“Why?” Howard asks, surprised. “Aren’t young people less likely to be racist?”
“You mean like Turk?” I point out. “The Millennials are themegeneration. They usually think everything revolves around them, and make decisions based on what’s going on in their lives and how it will affect their lives. In other words, they’re minefields of egocentrism.”
“Got it.”
“Ideally we want a juror who has a high social status, because those people tend to influence other jurors when it comes to deliberations.”
“So we’re looking for a unicorn,” Howard says. “A supersensitive, racially conscious, straight white male.”
“He could be gay,” I reply, serious. “Gay, Jewish, female—anything that can help them identify with discrimination in any form is going to be a bonus for Ruth.”
“But we don’t know any of these candidates. How do we become psychic overnight?”
“We don’t become psychic. We become detectives,” I say. “You’re going to take half the surveys and drive to the addresses that are listed on them. You want to find out whatever you can. Are they religious? Are they rich? Poor? Do they have political campaign signs on the lawn? Do they live above where they work? Do they have a flagpole in the front yard?”
“What doesthathave to do with anything?”
“More often than not that’s someone who’s extremely conservative,” I explain.
“Where are you going to be?” he asks.
“Doing the same thing.”
I watch Howard leave, plugging the first address into his phone GPS. Then I wander the halls of the office asking other public defenders if they’ve had any of these folks on their panels—a lot of the jurors get recycled. Ed is about to head out the door to court, but he glances at the sheaf of papers. “I remember this guy,” he says, pulling one survey free. “He was part of my jury on Monday—grand larceny case. He raised his hand during my opening statement and asked if I had a business card.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Sadly,” Ed says, “no. Good luck, kiddo.”
Ten minutes later, I’ve plugged an address into my GPS and find myself driving through Newhallville. I lock the doors for safety’s sake. Presidential Gardens, the apartment building between Shelton and Dixwell Avenues, is a lower-income pocket of the city, with a quarter of the residents living below the poverty line, and the streets that bracket the residences are rife with drug traffic. Nevaeh Jones lives in this building, somewhere. I watch a little boy run out the door of one building, not wearing a coat, and start jogging when the cold hits him. He wipes his nose on his sleeve in midstride.
Will a woman from this area see Ruth and think she’s being railroaded? Or will she see the socioeconomic difference between them and be resentful?
It’s a hard call. In Ruth’s unique case, the best juror may not be one with the same color skin.
I put a question mark at the top of the survey—this is one I’ll have to consider further. Driving slowly out of the neighborhood, I wait until I see children playing outside and then pull over to the curb and call Howard’s cell. “So?” I ask when he picks up. “How’s it going?”
“Um,” he says. “I’m sort of stuck.”
“Where?”
“East Shore.”
