Perfect Justice

43.

“MR. KINCAID,” JUDGE TYLER continued. “I read your statement in the morning paper.”

“Statement? I never—”

“Let me tell you right up front—I don’t appreciate disrespectful comments about this Court being published in the press. If you have a problem with me, you can say it to my face. And by the way, I’ve never let my cases be decided on the basis of legal trickery, and I don’t intend to start now.”

“Your honor, I assure you—”

“That’s enough. A word to the wise is sufficient. Now then, we need to select a jury. Bailiff, call the veniremen.”

The bailiff began drawing names out of a metal cage that looked like an old-time bingo hopper. The selected people walked, some hesitantly, all nervously, to the jury box. Once the required number of bodies was seated, Judge Tyler instructed Swain to begin voir dire.

“Thank you, your honor.” Swain stood directly in front of the jury box, his arms spread wide, a warm and friendly smile on his face. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have assembled today in the midst of a great conflict. A festering cauldron of hate has spawned the most sinful of crimes—the wrongful taking of a man’s life. I don’t need to tell you the importance of the task that lies before us. I will just ask you this. Is there anyone here today that for any reason believes he cannot do his duty to God and this court of law?”

Not surprisingly no hands were raised.

“If we prove the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and we will—is there anyone here who would be unable to apply the maximum sentence mandated by law for this heinous crime?”

No hands. But just in case there was some doubt about the sentence to which the DA was referring …

“Is there anyone here who feels he or she might be unable to issue a sentence of death, if the law and the circumstances commanded it?”

After a long pause one young man on the far end of the first row raised his hand.

“Mr. Clemons,” Swain said.

How did Swain know his name? Ben wondered. He couldn’t have memorized them all when the names were called. No—small town, Ben reminded himself. Small town.

“Mr. Clemons, would you be able to issue a sentence of death?”

“Well … I just don’t know,” Clemons said awkwardly. He was aware that half the town was watching him. “I mean … death—that’s an awful harsh sentence. I just—I just don’t know if I could do that or not.”

“I see,” Swain intoned. His disapproval was evident. “I appreciate your honesty.” He glanced at the judge. Swain wouldn’t ask for Clemons to be removed now, with everyone listening in, but as soon as they were in chambers, Clemons was a goner. “Anyone else?”

Apparently the possibility of becoming executioners didn’t trouble anyone else enough to speak up.

“Very well,” Swain said. “ ’Preciate your cooperation.” He returned to his table.

What is this? Ben wondered. He’s done? Jury selection in capital cases often went on for days. Sometimes selecting the jury took longer than the trial. Swain had barely been up there for five minutes.

Definitely not a good sign. Either Swain knew the jurors personally and believed they were already predisposed in his favor, or he considered his case so strong he didn’t care who sat on the jury. Or both.

“Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Tyler said, “you may inquire.”

“Thank you.” Ben scrambled to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are probably familiar with the words District Attorney Swain just used—beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s the standard he has to meet. If you don’t think he’s proved his case beyond a reasonable doubt, you must find my client, Donald Vick, not guilty.”

“Counsel,” Judge Tyler interrupted, “this isn’t closing argument. Get on with the voir dire.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Ben assured him.

“Well, maybe they allow you to plead your whole case during jury selection over in Tulsa County,” he said sternly, “but I don’t.”

A small tittering emerged from the gallery. And just in case the jurors didn’t already know Ben was the out-of-towner, the fact was now abundantly clear.

Ben approached the jury box. It was hard to know where to stand. He tried to position himself as close to them as Swain had been, but when he did, he saw the front row of jurors instinctively shrink back in their chairs. They didn’t want him that close; he was invading their personal space. The message was obvious: Swain was their friend; Ben wasn’t.

“My first question is this,” Ben said. “Do you feel that if you are called to this jury, you will be able to apply the reasonable-doubt standard?”

No hands. No reactions.

“Perhaps I should explain what I mean by that. Beyond a reasonable doubt means—”

“Now I’ll object to that,” Swain said. He popped a suspender for effect. “He’s not allowed to define reasonable doubt. He can’t even do that in closing argument. That’s your honor’s job.”

“The objection will be sustained,” Judge Tyler pronounced.

Ben frowned. He was getting nowhere fast. “Let me try it this way. How many of you have heard or read anything about this murder case?”

Eighteen hands shot into the air.

“Your honor,” Ben said. “Under these circumstances, my motion for change of venue—”

“Will be denied. Proceed, counsel.”

Ben sighed. “Well, how many of you have already made up your mind about what happened?”

Eighteen hands fell. Which made sense, of course. This was an exciting case. These people wanted to sit on the jury, except perhaps Clemons. They weren’t about to admit they were prejudiced.

“Do any of you know the defendant? Have you had any contact with him at all?”

Only a middle-aged woman in the third row raised her hand.

“Thank you,” Ben said. “And you would be Ms. …”

“That’s Mrs. Conrad,” Swain informed him.

Thanks, Mr. District Attorney, for reminding us that you know everyone here and I don’t. “Mrs. Conrad. How do you know Donald Vick?”

“Well, it’s like this,” she explained carefully. “After that tornado last spring took the north wall off my house, I moved into a boardinghouse where this man was also staying.”

“I see,” Ben said. “Would that be Mary Sue’s place?”

“Why—yes,” she said, obviously surprised. Score one for the out-of-towner.

“Did you get to know Mr. Vick during that time?”

“Well, not too much. He was a quiet one. Kept to himself. Rather morose. Always seemed like he was … thinking. Or planning—”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Conrad, I think I’ve got the idea. Anyone else?”

Ben continued voir-diring the veniremen for another half hour, but he acquired no fresh information. All of them knew enough about the case to have preconceived conclusions, but no one would admit it. Ben would have to proceed on instinct.

Unfortunately Ben knew his instincts were lousy. This was a part of the trial where he typically depended on Christina. She had a knack for puncturing the subterfuge and perceiving what was really on people’s minds. But Christina wasn’t helping today. She wasn’t even in the courtroom.

In chambers, Swain used only one of his preemptory challenges, to take Mr. Clemons off the jury. Ben removed Mrs. Conrad and four other older women. Older women tended to be harsher judges and to give harsher sentences. A statistical generalization, to be sure. Barely better than a stereotype. But at the moment it was all Ben had.

And that left twelve jurors. No recalls were necessary. In barely more than an hour they had selected the twelve men and women who would decide Donald Vick’s fate.

The judge and lawyers returned to the courtroom. Judge Tyler charged the final twelve jurors.

“I’m glad we got that taken care of,” Tyler said. “Lawyers tend to be a long-winded bunch. Anytime we can select a jury in less than a day, I feel accomplished. The rest of the veniremen in the courtroom are dismissed.”

Tyler glanced at his watch. “We’ll call it quits for the day and let you all get home and make the necessary arrangements with your employers and families. Be back at the courthouse at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Tyler glanced at the counsel tables. “That includes you gentlemen, too, of course. Have your opening statements ready, and let’s keep them down to half an hour, tops. And then, ladies and gentlemen, we shall see what we shall see.”