“Who do you think has the right to dictate medical treatment—the family of the patient or the medical professional?” I ask.
“It’s a case-by-case thing…”
“Have you or someone in your family had a bad outcome at a hospital?”
Walsh’s mouth tightens. “My mother died on the operating table during a routine endoscopy.”
“Did you blame the doctor?”
He hesitates. “We settled.”
And a flag is on the field. “Thank you,” I say, and as I sit down I look at Howard and shake my head.
The second potential juror is a black man in his late sixties. Odette asks him how far he went in school, if he is married, who he lives with, what his hobbies are. Most of these questions are on the survey, but sometimes you want to ask them again, to look the person in the eye when he tells you he does Civil War reenactments, for example, to see if he’s just into history or if he’s a gun nut. “I understand you’re a security guard at a mall,” she says. “Do you consider yourself a member of law enforcement?”
“I guess in a small sense,” he replies.
“Mr. Jordan, you know we’re looking for an impartial jury,” Odette says. “It surely has not escaped your notice that you and the defendant are both people of color. Might that impact your ability to make a fair decision?”
He blinks. After a moment, he replies to Odette, “Is there anything aboutyourcolor that makesyouunfair?”
I think Mr. Jordan might be my favorite person in the world right now. I stand up as Odette finishes her questioning. “Do you think black people are more likely to commit crimes than white people?” I ask.
I already know the answer, so that’s not why I’m asking.
I want to see how he reacts to me, a white woman, posing a question like that.
“I believe,” he says slowly, “that black people are more likely to wind up in jail than white folks.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, and I turn toward Howard, nodding imperceptibly, as if to say:Thatis aten.
There are several witnesses who fall somewhere in between horrific and perfect, and then juror number 12 takes the stand. Lila Fairclough is the perfect age for a juror, blond and spry. She teaches in the inner city in a racially integrated classroom. She’s very polite and professional with Odette, but she smiles at me the minute I stand up. “My daughter’s going to be in the school district where you work,” I tell her. “It’s why we moved there.”
“She’ll love it,” the woman says.
“Now, here I am, Ms. Fairclough, a white woman representing a black woman, who’s facing one of the most serious accusations that can be brought against a person. I have some concerns, and I’d like to talk about them, because it’s just as critical for you to feel comfortable on this jury as it is for me to feel comfortable representing my client. You know, we all talk about prejudice being a bad thing, but it’s a reality. For example, there are certain kinds of cases I could never be impaneled on. I mean, I love animals. If I see someone being cruel to them I can’t be objective—I’m just so angry that my anger supersedes any rational thought. If that was the case, I’d have a hard time believing anything the defense told me.”
“I totally get your point, but I don’t have a biased bone in my body,” Ms. Fairclough assures me.
“If you got on the bus and there were two seats available—one next to an African American man and one next to an elderly white woman, where would you sit?”
“In the first available seat.” She shakes her head. “I know what you’re getting at, Ms. McQuarrie. But honestly, I don’t have a problem with black people.”
That’s when Howard drops his pen.
I hear it like a gunshot. I spin around, meet his eye, and start to fake an Oscar-worthy coughing fit. This was our prearranged signal. I choke as if I am hacking out a lung, and drink from the glass of water on the defense table, and then rasp at the judge, “My colleague will finish up here, Your Honor.”
When Howard stands up, he starts swallowing convulsively. I’m sure that the judge is going to think the entire defense team has the plague, when I see the reaction on Lila Fairclough’s face.
She freezes the minute Howard steps in front of her.
It’s infinitesimal, the time between that and how fast she stretches her lips into a smile. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t witnessed it. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Fairclough,” he says. “Just a couple more questions.
“What’s the percentage of black children in your classroom?”
“Well, I have a class of thirty, and eight of my children are African American this year.”
“Do you find that the African American children have to be disciplined more frequently than the white children?”
