Everyone has been waiting for at least an hour, with no word on what’s causing the delay, when her courtroom deputy snaps to attention and calls us to order. Her Honor sweeps onto the bench as if she’s already terribly burdened and tells everybody to sit down. No apology, no explanation. She launches into some introductory remarks, not a single word of which is even remotely original, and when she runs out of gas she says, “Mr. Mancini, you may examine the panel for the State.”
Max is quickly on his feet, strutting along the mahogany railing that separates us from the spectators. With ninety-two jurors on one side, and at least that many reporters and spectators on the other, the courtroom is again packed. They’re even leaning against the rear wall. Max rarely has such an audience. He begins with a dreadful, sappy monologue about how honored he feels to just be in the courtroom representing the good people of our city. He feels a burden. He feels an honor. He feels an obligation. He feels a lot of things, and within a few minutes I notice some of the jurors start to frown and look at him as if to say, “Is this guy serious?”
After he’s talked about himself for too long, I slowly stand, look at Her Honor, and say, “Judge, can we please get on with this?”
She says, “Mr. Mancini, do you have some questions for the pool?”
He replies, “Of course, Your Honor. I didn’t realize we were in such a hurry.”
“Oh, there’s no hurry, but I really don’t want to waste time.” This, from a judge who was an hour late.
Max begins with textbook questions about prior jury service, and experiences with the criminal justice system, and prejudices against the police and law enforcement. By and large, it’s a waste of time because people rarely reveal their true feelings in such a setting. It does, however, give us plenty of time to study the jurors. Tadeo is taking pages of notes, at my direction. I’m scribbling too, but I’m primarily watching body language. Cliff and his associate are on the pews across the aisle, watching everything. By now, I feel as though I’ve known these people, especially the first forty, for years.
Max wants to know if any of them have ever been sued. A standard question but not a great one. This is, after all, a criminal matter, not a civil one. Out of the ninety-two, about fifteen admit to being sued at some point in their past. I’ll bet there are at least another fifteen who are not admitting it. This is, after all, America. What honest citizen has never been sued? Max seems thrilled with this response, as if he’s really found fertile dirt to dig in. He asks if their experiences within the court system would in any way affect their ability to deliberate in this case.
Naw, Max. Everybody loves to get sued. And we do so without the slightest resentment toward the system. But he flails away with follow-up questions that go nowhere.
For nothing but spite, I stand and say, “Your Honor, could you remind Mr. Mancini that this is a criminal case, not a civil one?”
“I know that!” Max growls at me and we exchange nasty looks. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Move along, Mr. Mancini,” Her Honor says. “And please keep your seat, Mr. Rudd.”
Max fights his anger and lets it pass. Changing gears, he wades into a sensitive matter. Has anyone in your immediate family ever been convicted of a violent crime? He apologizes for intruding into such a private matter, but he has no choice. Please forgive him. From the rear, juror number eighty-one slowly raises a hand.
Mrs. Emma Huffinghouse. White, age fifty-six, a freight company dispatcher. Her twenty-seven-year-old son is serving twelve years for a drug-fueled home invasion. As soon as Max sees her hand he throws up his and pleads, “I don’t want the details, please. I know this is a very private matter and very hurtful, I’m sure. My question is this: Was your experience with the criminal justice system satisfactory or unsatisfactory?”
Seriously, Max? We’re not filling out a survey for consumer satisfaction.
Mrs. Huffinghouse stands slowly and says, “I think my son was treated fairly by the system.”
Max almost leaps over the bar to run hug her. Bless you, dear, bless you. What an endorsement for the forces of good! Too bad, Max, she’s useless. We won’t get close to number eighty-one.
Juror number forty-seven raises his hand, stands, says his brother spent time in jail for aggravated assault, and, unlike Mrs. Huffinghouse, he, Mark Wattburg, was not favorably impressed with the criminal process.
But Max thanks him profusely anyway. Anybody else? No more hands. There are three others, and I suppose I know it but Max doesn’t. This confirms that my research is better than his. It also alerts me to the fact that these three are not altogether forthcoming.
