“What’s the problem?”
“It’s a gated community. There’s a low fence and I could look over it, but I’d have to get out of the car,” Howard says.
“Then get out of the car.”
“I can’t. See, back when I was in college, I kind of made a rule for myself—don’t get out of the car unless there’s a happy, living black person in sight.” He exhales. “I’ve been waiting for forty-five minutes, but the only people in this part of New Haven are white.”
That’s not necessarily a bad thing for Ruth. “Can’t you just go peek over the wall? Make sure she doesn’t have a Trump sign on her lawn?”
“Kennedy—there are neighborhood watch signs all over the place. What do you think is going to happen if they see a black man trying to peek over a wall?”
“Oh,” I say, embarrassed. “I get it.” I look out the window to where three kids are jumping into piles of leaves; I think of the little black boy I saw streaking away from Presidential Gardens. Ed told me last week that he defended a twelve-year-old involved in a gang shooting with two seventeen-year-olds, and that the prosecution was gunning to have all three tried as adults. “Give me an hour and then meet me at 560 Theodore Street in East End. And, Howard? When you arrive, it’s safe to get out of the car,” I say. “I live there.”
—
ILIGHTLY DROPthe bag of Chinese food onto the desk of my home office. “I have goodies,” I say, taking out the lo mein and laying claim to it.
“So do I,” Howard says, and he points to a stack of papers he’s printed out.
It’s 10:00P.M.,and we’ve set up camp at my home. I left Howard there all afternoon to do online research while Odette and I swapped stacks of surveys. For hours, I’ve battled traffic, sussed out more jurors by neighborhood, and scanned the plaintiff and defendant lists at the courthouse to see if any of the potential jurors have been criminally prosecuted or have relatives that were criminally prosecuted.
“I found three guys who were charged with domestics, a woman whose mother got convicted of arson, and a lovely little old lady whose grandson’s meth lab was busted last year,” Howard announces.
The screen reflects, glowing green around Howard’s face as he scans the page. “Okay,” he says, opening a plastic container of soup and drinking from the side without a spoon. “God, I’m starving. So here’s the thing: you can get some good dirt on Facebook, but it depends on privacy settings.”
“Did you try LinkedIn?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a gold mine.”
He beckons me to the floor, where he’s spread out the surveys and has paper-clipped printouts to each one. “This guy? We love him,” Howard says. “He’s a social justice educator at Yale. And even better—his mother is a nurse.” I hold up my hand, he high-fives. “This is my second favorite.”
He passes me the survey. Candace White. She’s forty-eight years old, African American, a librarian, mother of three. She looks like someone who could be friends with Ruth, not just rule in favor of the defense.
Her favorite TV show isWallace Mercy.
I may not want Reverend Mercy messed up in Ruth’s case, but the people who watch him are definitely going to have sympathy for my client.
Howard is still listing his finds. “I’ve got three ACLU memberships. And this girl ran a whole tribute to Eric Garner on her blog. A series calledI Can’t Breathe Either.”
“Nice.”
“On the other end of the spectrum,” Howard says, “this lovely gentleman is the deacon of his church and also supports Rand Paul and advocates the repeal of all civil rights laws.”
I take the survey from his hand and put a redXthrough the name at the top.
“Two people who posted about reducing funding for welfare,” Howard says. “I’m not sure what you want to do about that.”
“Put them in the middle pile,” I reply.
“This girl updated her status three hours ago:Jesus Christ some chink just sideswiped my car.”
I place her survey on top of the Rand Paul advocate’s, as well as someone whose profile pic on Twitter is Glenn Beck. There are two candidates Howard has nixed because they liked Facebook pages for Skullhead and Day of the Sword. “Is that someGame of Thronesthing?” I ask, baffled.
“They’re white power bands,” Howard says, and I am pretty sure he blushes. “I found a group called Vaginal Jesus too. But none of our potential jurors listen to them.”
“Thank God for small mercies. What’s the big pile in the middle?”
“Indeterminate,” Howard explains. “I have a few pictures of people making gun gang signs, a handful of stoners, one idiot who took a video of himself shooting up heroin, and thirty selfies of people who are rocked-off-their-gourd drunk.”
