I look down at the table. Odette is wrong. Murder is not monochromatic. We know that from the school-to-prison pipeline. There are so, so many reasons the cycle is hard to break—and one of them is that white jurors come into a trial with bias. They are far more likely to make concessions for a defendant who looks like them than for one who doesn’t.
“All right,” I say to Howard. “What’s your plan?”
—
WHENICRAWLinto bed that night, Micah is already asleep. But then he reaches out and wraps his arm around me. “No,” I say. “I am too tired to do anything right now.”
“Even thank me?” he says.
I turn to face him. “Why?”
“Because,” he says. “I found you a neonatologist.”
Immediately I sit up. “And?”
“And we’re going to see him this weekend. He’s a guy I knew from med school.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That my crazy lawyer wife is going all Lysistrata on me until I can get her an expert in the field.”
I laugh, then frame Micah’s face with my hands and kiss him, long and slow. “Go figure,” I say. “I’ve gotten my second wind.”
In one quick move he grabs me and rolls, so that I am pinned beneath him. His smile gleams in the light of the moon. “If you’ll do that for a neonatologist,” he murmurs, “what would you give me if I found you somethingreallyimpressive, like a parasitologist? Or a leprologist?”
“You spoil me,” I say, and I pull him down to me.
—
IMEETRUTHat the back entrance of the courthouse, just in case Wallace Mercy has decided that jury selection is worth his time and energy. She is wearing a plum suit that I went with her to buy at T.J.Maxx last week, and a crisp white shirt. Her hair is pulled back and knotted at the nape of her neck. She looks every inch the professional, and I would have assumed she is at court because she is an attorney if not for the fact that her knees are shaking so uncontrollably they are knocking together.
I take her arm. “Relax. Honestly, this isn’t worth getting nervous over.”
She looks at me. “It’s just suddenly…very real.”
I introduce her to Howard, and as they shake hands I see something almost imperceptible pass between them—an acknowledgment that it is surprising for both of them to be in this courthouse, for different reasons. Howard and I flank Ruth as we walk into the courtroom and take our seats at the defense table.
For all that Judge Thunder is an asshole to us attorneys, juries eat him up. He looks the part, with wavy silver hair and grave lines of experience bracketing his mouth, forming parentheses around whatever wisdom he has yet to speak. When our hundred potential jurors are jammed into the courtroom, he gives preliminary instructions.
“Remember,” I whisper to Howard, leaning behind Ruth’s back. “Your job is to take notes. So many notes that your hand cramps. If one of those jurors flinches at a certain word, I need to know the word. If they fall asleep, I want to know when.”
He nods as I scan the faces of the potential jurors. I recognize some, from their Facebook photos. But even those I don’t recall have expressions I am used to seeing: there are the faces of those I secretly call Boy Scouts, who are delighted to be performing this duty to their country. There are the Morgan Stanleys—businessmen who keep checking their watches because their time is clearly more important than spending the day in a jury box. There are the Repeat Offenders, who have been through this process before and wonder why the hell they’ve been called again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Judge Thunder, and I’d like to welcome you to my courtroom.”
Oh, good grief.
“In this case, the State is represented by our prosecutor Odette Lawton. Her job is to prove this case by reason of evidence, beyond a reasonable doubt. The defendant is represented by Kennedy McQuarrie.” As he begins to list the charges that Ruth was indicted for—murder and involuntary manslaughter—her knee starts trembling so hard I reach under the table and press it flat.
“I will explain to you later what those charges mean,” Judge Thunder says. “But at this moment, is there any member of the panel who knows the parties in this case?”
One juror raises his hand.
“Can you approach the bench?” the judge asks.
Odette and I move closer for the conference as a noise machine is turned on so that the rest of the jury cannot hear what this guy says. He points to Odette. “She locked up my brother on a drug charge, and she’s a lying bitch.”
Needless to say, he’s excused.
