Naked Justice

Chapter 33

JUDGE HART’S BAILIFF REACHED into the hopper and withdrew the first name. “Elizabeth MacPherson.”

A young woman, probably in her mid-thirties, in the third row of the gallery, put down her paperback novel and walked to the jury box. As directed, she took the first seat on the far end of the back row.

“Harrison James Denton.” This one was more attentive, more eager, more wide-eyed. He jumped to his feet and hurried to the jury box, long hair flying behind him, an anxious grin on his face.

“He knows,” Harold Sacks whispered into Ben’s ear. Ben nodded his agreement.

And so the trial finally began. After all the legal wrangling was over, after all the motions were ruled upon and the countless heated arguments in chambers were done, it finally came down to this: the selection of the twelve persons (fourteen counting alternates) who would decide Wallace Barrett’s fate. Whether he lived or died; whether he became a free man or spent the rest of his life in prison.

The weekend had been an unmitigated nightmare for Ben, beginning with the destruction of his office and going downhill from there. Christina had some minor cuts and abrasions, and the docs had removed some glass slivers from Jones, but they were all alive and functioning. The worst part was the psychic aftershock; no one came away from a near-miss violent death like that without feeling some trauma.

The explosion had obliterated his office and done serious damage to the pawnshop and the diner on either side. According to the preliminary reports from the Tulsa Metro Bomb Squad, the explosion was triggered by a device that was probably in that package Ben had received in the mail but had never opened—thank God. The principal ingredients in the bomb were two common chemical liquids that could be found in virtually every kitchen or laundry room in Tulsa. Separate, they were harmless. But the bomb allowed one to trickle into the other, a slow-burn mixture that would eventually and inevitably result in a terrific explosion. Mike had taken a personal interest in the case and had assured Ben the police would investigate to the best of their abilities, but the simple truth was, they had no significant clues. No one had the slightest idea who had planted the bomb. And given the enormity of the pretrial press attention given the Barrett case, the bomber could be almost anyone.

Ben would have liked to have indulged in an extended recuperative period, maybe a few weeks on a Mexican beach, but he didn’t have time. He had a case going to trial. He couldn’t count on Judge Hart giving him an extension, especially not with the eyes of the world upon her and Bullock breathing down her neck and already accusing her of being biased in Ben’s favor. No, he had to be ready.

Fortunately, for once in his life, Ben was representing a client who actually had some money. They had set up shop in a suite in the Adam’s Mark Hotel near the courthouse. Of course, this expense would eat away at Ben’s fee, but under the circumstances, he had little choice.

There was one lucky break—Christina had taken most of the trial exhibits and notebooks to Kinko’s for copying, so they weren’t destroyed in the explosion. But all of Ben’s notes were. As well as all their office equipment. And all the information Jones had stored on his computer. They didn’t even have a working typewriter. Christina, resourceful as ever, had managed to rent the most critical equipment and had it delivered to the hotel suite. But Ben didn’t have tenant’s insurance and his landlord wasn’t sure his policy covered terrorist acts. So all of this simply magnified their ever-increasing expenses.

The worst part of the weekend, though, possibly even worse than the explosion, was dealing with Harold Sacks. Sacks was the jury consultant Barrett had insisted they hire. He was a short man from Boston—overbearing, overconfident, and apparently accustomed to having every word he said treated as if it had been handed down from Mount Sinai.

“The way I see it,” Sacks had said just after he’d swiped Ben’s last slice of toast from his room service breakfast, “we need black jurors. As many as possible. Make all twelve black if you can.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Ben informed him. “We’re in Tulsa County. You’ll be lucky if we get two. Three, tops.”

“Well,” Sacks said, smiling the odious little smile Ben had come to detest, “that depends on how many white jurors you get dismissed, doesn’t it?”

“Judge Hart isn’t an idiot. She’s not going to dismiss anyone for cause unless there are bona fide reasons. And I’ll probably get six preemptories. Like I said, two, maybe three black jurors, tops.”

“Hmm.” Sacks tapped his forehead and engaged in thought processes Ben suspected were more reminiscent of Machiavelli than Clarence Darrow. “Maybe we can do something about that.”

“What’s this obsession with black jurors, anyway? Are you saying black jurors will be more sympathetic just because the defendant is black?”

“In a word, yes.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Look at these polls I’ve taken.” Sacks had spent the previous week polling, at the cost of a mere thirty thousand dollars of Barrett’s money. “African Americans who were polled showed significantly higher propensities for believing that Barrett either is or might be innocent. This shouldn’t come as any great surprise. Need I remind you of the O. J. Simpson experience?”

“Well, we’re still not going to get an all-black jury, no matter what your polls show.”

“My second-choice demographic category is young white women.”

Ben blinked. “I thought the stereotype was that women tended to be more likely to convict.”

“That’s true, particularly if the defendant is a woman, and particularly with older women. But in this case, with young white women, we have a special appeal.”

“And what’s that?”

“Sex.”

Ben blinked twice. “Care to explain that?”

Sacks nudged him in the side. “Oh, come on, Ben. You’re not as naive as you pretend.”

“I’m not?”

“It’s obvious. We’ve got a very handsome man for a defendant. A media star. A husky, strapping athlete. A big black stud, basically. White women crave black lovers. You know what they say. Once you go black, you’ll never go back.”

“That’s the most offensive—”

“Even the ones who have never had a black lover probably fantasize about it. Probably two, three times a day.”

“How would you know?”

“I’ve done my research. Studies have proven this is all true. I’ve got statistics.” He winked. “Why do you think I get the big money?”

“Because rich defendants will try anything to keep themselves out of jail.”

Sacks folded his arms. “Well, I wasn’t aware that you were handling this case gratis yourself.”

Touché.

It only got worse on Sunday afternoon, when the sheriffs delivered the juror questionnaires that had been completed by all the people in the prospective jury pool. Each candidate had been required to complete a detailed forty-five-page list of questions about themselves.

“All right,” Sacks said to Ben, gripping several of the completed questionnaires in his hand. “Let’s try a mock voir dire.”

Ben thought his facial expression surely made any verbal response superfluous.

“Kincaid, let me help you. Please. Tomorrow, when you stand before the jury, you’ll be on your own.”

“You know, I’ve got a lot to do …”

“I’m not sure what to think about your attitude, Kincaid.” Some time during the course of the weekend, Ben had been demoted from Ben to Kincaid. “Don’t you know that voir dire is the most important part of the trial?”

Ben threw down his pencil. “Well, I know it’s one important part of the trial. But see, I, unlike you, have to prepare for all the other parts as well.”

“Come on, come one. Let’s just run a few test cases.” He glanced down at the top questionnaire in his hand. “Okay, this guy drives a big black pickup with a bumper sticker that reads: IMPEACH CLINTON AND HER HUSBAND. DO you want him on your jury?”

Ben shrugged. “I’d have to know more about him.”

“Wrong. You know you don’t want him just from the fact that he has a pickup with an obnoxious bumper sticker.”

“Half the people in Tulsa have pickups with obnoxious bumper stickers.”

“Then that’s the half we don’t want.” Sacks flipped to the next questionnaire. “What about this guy? He’s white and in his mid-fifties, he’s a pediatrician, he wears a Mickey Mouse watch with diamond studs, and he has a backyard swimming pool. Do you want him on your jury?”

Ben tried to play along. “Doctor, huh? Well, then he’s probably intelligent.”

Sacks threw the questionaire at him, laughing. “Give me a break. As if intelligence is a quality you want in a juror. You’re on the defense, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“You’re going to claim that Barrett was framed, aren’t you?”

“Well, sort of …”

“That it was all a big conspiracy? That people were out to get him?”

“That’s true.”

Sacks jabbed Ben again and winked. “Trust me. You don’t want intelligent jurors.”

“But the truth—”

“And what’s more, he’s a rich white doctor. You know who they really hate?”

“Lawyers?”

“Yeah. But you know who rich white guys hate even more than lawyers? Rich black guys. Guys who had the audacity to crawl out of the ghetto where they belong.”

Ben stared at him in disgust. “This is scientific analysis? It’s nothing more than a bunch of stereotypes and bigotries cobbled together and sold as science for sixty thousand dollars!”

“Kincaid, there’s a reason why stereotypes become stereotypes. It’s because they’re true!”

“Sometimes, yes. But sometimes not. That’s why we have voir dire. And that’s why all this pseudoscientific hugger-mugger is a waste of time. When all is said and done, you don’t know who will be chosen tomorrow. You can’t read their minds. You can’t see inside their hearts. All we can do is ask them the right questions, look them in the eyes, and take our best guess.”

“Kincaid, you go in there tomorrow and … guess”—he spat out the word—“and you might as well buy your client a one-way ticket to death row.”

“I’d rather do that than face a panel of prospective jurors and assume that they’re all disgusting, close-minded bigots!”

It went downhill from there. Technically, they were still speaking, but relations were strained to say the least. Messages to and fro were couriered by Jones. Separate cars were taken to the courthouse.

The marshals ushered Barrett to the defendant’s table before the jury arrived. He seemed impressively calm and collected, given what was about to begin. Ben knew he had to be tearing himself apart inside.

Once the bailiff had called all the names, the prosecution, a team of three headed by Jack Bullock, would have a chance to address the jurors directly. And after him, Ben. And then it would be time to pick.

Thank goodness Christina was here, Ben thought. Her instincts he trusted. He could only hope to keep Sacks at bay, to keep his statistics and studies from tainting her.

The bailiff had called the last name, but no one moved. All eyes scanned the courtroom.

“Are you here?” the bailiff asked.

Ben spotted a woman in the front row of the gallery—slender, mid-forties, with a look of great deliberation on her face. Something was going on in her head. Whatever it was, she couldn’t make up her mind.

“Let me try it again,” the bailiff said. He glanced down at the slip of paper in his hand. “The last juror is Deanna Meanders.”