Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  Grisham’s Juror

  TIMOTHY BRAATZ

  The Disproportionate Press

  Copyright © 2011 Timothy Braatz

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0615526041

  ISBN-10: 0615526047

  The Disproportionate Press

  GrishamsJuror@lunycrab.com • www.lunycrab.com

  Also By timothy braatz

  NONFICTION

  From Ghetto to Death Camp: A Memoir of Privilege and Luck

  (published as Undermensch by Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag in

  Germany, 2010)

  Surviving Conquest: A History of the Yavapai People (University of

  Nebraska Press, 2003)

  PLAYS

  Cossacks Under Water (2009)

  When Saints Go Marching In (2007)

  Paper Dolls (2005)

  The Commistar (2004)

  Paper Cuts (2003)

  Gun, Lies, & Lullabies (2002)

  One Was Assaulted (2001)

  New and Nobler Life (2000)

  Helena Handbasket (1999)

  Gabriella’s Garden (1996)

  The Devil & the Wedding Dress (1994)

  1

  How does one avoid jury duty? I thought I had it figured out. You 1) write a letter explaining that while you’d love to fulfill your civic duty, one hundred fifty algebra students would lose their hard-won appreciation for least common denominators and seize the opportunity to terrorize some bewildered substitute instructor provided, at no small expense, by the school district taxpayers. If the jury assignment happens to hit during summer vacation, you 2) request a change of date due to serious, lingering, infectious illness and, when a new date is approved, refer back to 1. If 1 somehow fails to secure your release, you can always 3) simply ignore the summons—what are they going to do, send out the highway patrol?

  Actually, what they’re going to do is send out a nasty letter refusing further medical postponement without extensive documentation and threatening contempt of court and several hundred dollars in fines. Now what? Marissa suggested I consult her John Grisham novels.

  -If you want to outsmart the judicial system, you should find out how it works.

  Open a Grisham? Desperate times, desperate measures. The first book I looked at was about jury members being assassinated one by one. If that’s how it works, just kill me now and spare me the time in court. The second suggested ways to get yourself on a jury and see justice served, not sidestep it altogether. Not real helpful, Marissa.

  -I guess you’re just going to have to go.

  -A courtroom in July? I’ll die.

  -It’s just one day.

  -Unless I get selected.

  -The odds are against it.

  -With my luck—

  -Be obnoxious. You’re good at that.

  My friend Pete seconded the motion.

  -Dude, just ask the bailiff where you can score some weed.

  In the third Grisham I attempted, this hotshot young attorney takes a position with a major partnership, works his butt off, gets lots of perks, then discovers the entire operation is corrupt, basically organized crime, only he can’t quit, he’s compromised, so he ends up taking it down single-handedly. The way he does it is pretty ingenious. Okay, I confess, I caught myself enjoying Grisham. Go ahead and laugh—I know I did, whenever Marissa brought home his latest bestseller. If the masses are buying it, how good can it be, right? Which is why I hadn’t told her that I’d read number three cover to cover and then picked up a fourth, being the story of a tax lawyer who loses his job, apartment, girlfriend, and goes to work defending the poor and homeless. The pleasure, I discovered, comes in Grisham’s everyman prevailing over corporate villains. Human decency triumphing over the power of money. The underdog on top at last.

  I was over halfway through number four, the fired lawyer now sticking it to his evil ex-employer, when the bailiff called all rise and the judge came in. I had planned not to stand—surely that would get me home by lunch—but I popped up with the rest of them. A woman judge—short black hair going gray, half-moon reading glasses on a beaded chain, a friendly librarian smile, like a younger, taller version of that Supreme Court justice. She apologized for the long wait this morning, reminded us no cell phones in her courtroom, and went to work. A murder trial, she explained, and it might last a week or more. This is Mr. Sloan, the prosecutor. Meet the defense attorney, Mr. Lawson.

  -They’re going to ask you some questions, some of you will be excused, don’t take it personally.

  Not to worry, Your Honor, no hard feelings, I promise.

  -Any reason why any of you can’t serve?

  She surveyed her kingdom—a few assorted court personnel and sixty attentive citizens in a dingy room, twelve of them seated in the jury box, the lucky winners of the court clerk’s initial lottery.

  -Any reason why you can’t be fair and impartial?

  That was my cue. Your Honor, I read about this case in the paper, I don’t recall all the details, but I know he’s guilty of something. Your Honor, the prosecutor and I once had a heated argument over a parking spot, he may not remember it, but I’ll never forget his weaselly face, that haughty smirk, the dismissive tone: Tough luck, buddy. Your Honor, my best friend in high school was murdered, and I just…I just can’t…I’m sorry, Your Honor.

  A quiver full of arrows, and I couldn’t let one fly. Some old guy got excused for a bad back, no doctor’s note requested. A single mother of three couldn’t afford childcare. Someone actually did know the prosecutor. Her Honor, Judge Silverson, was a soft touch. She released eight prospective jurors without arching an eyebrow, even the woman who claimed her mail-order business would suffer. Yet I remained silent. My palms were sweating, my throat was dry, I knew she would see right through me. Lying was never my strong suit. So much for Plan A.

  Probably it didn’t matter. I’d read on the internet that attorneys want jurors they can persuade—not too stubborn, not too sharp. Lowest common denominators. That was Plan B, I’d play it smart, if it went that far. Most likely, though, they’d have a jury chosen before my number was called. Marissa was right, the odds were in my favor.

  My cell phone vibrated in my pants pocket. From the bench, Judge Silverson was explaining peremptory challenges. Attorneys can excuse prospective jurors without cause, although according to my internet source, the Supreme Court has ruled they can’t reject candidates solely on race, gender, or ethnicity. Of course, if anyone pressed the issue, a clever attorney could always find other, more acceptable explanations for having removed an unwanted demographic. Interesting, but Her Honor was holding forth on basic procedures, not case law, so I slid the phone out of my pocket and onto my lap and read the new text message: How is it going? Ignoring a scolding glance from the prospective juror to my right, I texted back: Murder. Guy named Jack. Home by 2.

  -Have you ever made a big mistake, a serious mistake, that you immediately regretted?

  Mr. Lawson, the defense attorney, was approaching the jury box. He was a large man with thick hands that he held open, palms up, a gesture of congeniality. Practiced, I’m sure. And that hitch in his step—wouldn’t a slight limp make a big guy less intimidating, more human? It was all calculated, all theater, I knew that from the Grishams, and I was on to him. But what was he going for with his opening question? A big mistake, immediately regretted—wouldn’t that include everyone, if they were honest? Of course it would. He wasn’t looking for mistake makers, he was trying to identify sympathetic jurors who might understand that we’re all just a bad decision or two away from a felony, jurors who might be inclined toward leniency. Except doesn’t someone who readily admits to a mistake believe in owning up and taking responsibility, and wouldn’t a defense attorn
ey want to keep Mr. Stand-Up-And-Be-Counted off the jury? Quick, if I were in the box, would I raise my hand? No. Attorneys don’t like stubborn jurors.

  Juror Number Four, a heavy-set white woman, once agreed to a puppy, knowing full well she was allergic. Juror Seven, it turned out, told his wife don’t be silly, went up on the roof to clear gutters during a rainstorm, and snapped his ankle in two places when he hit the ground. And Juror Two, with her straight brown hair and awkward slouch, what was her big mistake?

  -I got married.

  She said it quietly, and Mr. Lawson softened his voice to match hers.

  -You regretted that?

  -I was only eighteen. I wasn’t ready.

  -That must have been difficult.

  -We got divorced. But I’m remarried. It’s better now.

  -Good. That’s good. Now tell me, is there any reason why you can’t give my client a fair hearing?

  -No.

  -Do you think it could be possible the police have arrested the wrong person? Is that possible?

  -I guess so.

  -Do you have any relatives who are policemen? Any friends?

  -No.

  -Do you believe that police can make mistakes, big mistakes, even when they’re doing their best?

  -Anyone can make mistakes.

  Indeed. My mistake is I didn’t get Sharon to marry me. I was probably too uptight, too critical of her dramatic personality. She had a great sense of humor, she was hysterical, she could be a bit much. If we had gotten married, life would certainly be more interesting. I should have found a way. Or maybe not. Pete says marriage is like cheese, it makes everything taste better, until it goes bad. Then it can kill you.

  Somebody near me chuckled. Juror Five, the only African American in the box, was entertaining the court with his big mistake.

  -I bought a hundred shares of my brother-in-law’s company, and it tanked.

  I was reminded of those education seminars where everyone states their name and tells us a little about themselves. Hi, I’m Joe, I teach chemistry, that’s about it, oh and I enjoy sudoku. I’m Jane, A.P. English, two cats. And then there’s always some oddball who enjoys sharing his foibles with strangers over bad coffee at eight in the morning.

  -About a year later the stock came back up, way up, there was a buyout, and I’ll be honest with you, I had to tell my wife that I’d sold it six months earlier. At a loss. A big loss.

  The laughter was surprisingly loud—a roomful of strangers releasing tension. But Juror Five was no oddball. His beard was perfectly trimmed, his tie was powder blue and expensive—more expensive maybe than defense attorney Lawson’s entire suit—his voice a rich baritone, a serious man by all appearances, yet still able to laugh about a failed investment. If we were making a movie here, he’d be the defense attorney, unfazed by some redneck prosecutor’s insinuations. No, if we were making a movie, he’d be the judge. Mr. Lawson asked him about his business: home entertainment systems. Mr. Lawson asked him about his MBA: USC.

  -No way they’ll keep him.

  Was the man to my left whispering to me or talking to himself? I turned to look. So far as I could tell, he was the only other African American in our jury pool. Two out of sixty. He noticed me looking and shook his head.

  -Gonna make it all white if they can.

  For a county population that’s only two percent black, two out of sixty is significant overrepresentation, but I chose to point out a more obvious calculation.

  -There’s gonna have to be some Latinos.

  The southern end of Orange County is rich and white, Reagan land. The rest of the county, once middle class and white, becomes browner and poorer by the day, and the jury pool appeared to reflect that. Lots of Latinos or Hispanics or whatever the proper term is, and also a number of Asians. An all-white jury was highly improbable. My new friend didn’t agree.

  -Wait and see, I’m telling you.

  Mr. Lawson had finished getting acquainted with the twelve in the box, thanked them twice, a little too heartily if you ask me, and sat down, making way for Mr. Sloan, the prosecuting attorney, a much shorter and quicker man. No limp, no open palms, just a brief greeting and thank you for your attendance let me remind you, ladies and gentlemen, of a juror’s obligation to the truth. Where’s the charm, Mr. Sloan, the play for our sympathy?

  -I have just one question for the twelve of you.

  Oh, I get it, the efficient public servant, no unnecessary flourishes, no wasted tax dollars, a man with no pretense, a man you can trust.

  -Do any of you believe it’s okay to take the law into your own hands?

  Come on, Mr. Sloan. What juror, sitting twenty feet from a black-robed judge, is saying yes to that? No one, see, no hands. Mr. Sloan didn’t hesitate.

  -What if you felt like you’d been cheated?

  Juror One came to life. Dark hair slicked back, effortless mustache—Hispanic down to his dedos.

  -Yeah, I would.

  -You would what?

  -If I’d been cheated I’d do something about it.

  -So you would take the law into your own hands?

  -Man, if the cops ain’t doing it.

  So I’m not the only one here with an exit strategy, only this poor guy can’t sit back and play the odds, not in chair one.

  -Would you say it’s acceptable to kill someone who cheated on you?

  -I’m not saying it’s acceptable…

  Don’t back down, amigo. ¡Ándele, ándele!

  …but if you let a dude walk over you, he won’t be the last one.

  That’s what I’m talking about!

  -I just want to be clear on this, Juror One. If you shoot someone who cheated you, should you be charged with a crime?

  -No, he should.

  Adiós, muchacho. Mr. Sloan consulted his papers.

  -Juror Number Six, do you agree with Juror Number One?

  -No.

  Pale skin, long black curls, dark eyes. I wouldn’t mind being sequestered with her.

  -No?

  -Not really. The police should handle it.

  Mr. Sloan seemed surprised. What did he expect—all Hispanics would think alike?

  -What if the police are too busy?

  -I don’t know.

  -Shouldn’t you do something about it yourself?

  -Not if it means breaking the law.

  I leaned to my left and whispered.

  -He’s gonna keep her.

  My neighbor shrugged

  -Maybe.

  -She’s not white.

  -White enough.

  -She’s…she looks Mexican.

  -If he keeps her, she’s white.

  I once had a sociology professor like that. You couldn’t argue against her sophistry. Any outcome proved her proposition, it just required the proper analysis, which she generously supplied. We called her The Spinster. But if the guy on my left was a sophist, the woman on my right was a hypocrite. That disapproving glance when I pulled out my phone, reminding me the judge had insisted we give the proceedings our full attention, even us back-benchers, and now here she is with a paperback open on her knees. And she was smooth. She looked up, eyes on the jury box while turning a page, then dropped her head and returned to reading. Head lifting and dropping, like a swimmer coming up for air between strokes. Is it possible to read that fast? Oh, I know. It had to be. I caught a glimpse of the book’s spine. Yep. Grisham.

  According to the original twelve, at 10-1 with one abstaining, taking the law into your own hands is not acceptable. The abstainer was Juror Seven, who couldn’t give a confident answer, he said, because he’d never been faced with such a decision. Is that honesty or stubbornness? He’s the guy on the roof in the hurricane, so I’m going with stubbornness. Mr. Sloan will dismiss him—that was my prediction—and El Numero Uno of course, and I bet Number Four goes too, the allergic woman with the dog, for being dangerously stupid. That will be three of the prosecution’s six allotted peremptory challenges. The defense I was less sure about. Mr.
Lawson might toss Number Twelve, an elderly man thrice divorced who admitted to no regrets, and Number Nine, a mother of three including a military policeman. That would leave seven jurors in, five sent packing, and the court clerk calling five replacements into the box. Five out of the forty of us still sitting behind the bar, with only seven peremptory challenges remaining. I liked my chances.

  -Juror Number One may be excused.

  Judge Silverson had asked if there were any challenges for cause, both attorneys had declined, and now Mr. Sloan was jumping right in with the peremptory challenges. El Numero Uno picked up his jacket—a jacket in July? crazy vato!—and exited the box. You did it, bro. Vaya con Díos.

  Mr. Lawson spoke next.

  -Juror Number Two may be excused.

  Huh? That’s the woman who regrets her first marriage. She thinks cops are fallible—why would the defense toss her?

  -Juror Number Eight may be excused.

  Sloan dismissed an Asian woman who barely spoke English. I should have known.

  -Juror Number Nine may be excused.

  That’s more like it—Lawson ousted the MP’s mom.

  -Juror Number Seven may be excused.

  And next time listen to your wife and stay off the wet roof.

  -Juror Number Twelve may be excused.

  That seemed to be the end of it. Sloan and Lawson were at the bench, whispering with Judge Silverson. Three used challenges apiece, and I had picked four out of six. Not bad for an amateur. The remaining six included a black man and the lovely light-skinned Latina. No all-white jury today. I gave The Sophist on my left a smug grin. This ain’t Alabama, brother, this ain’t 1960.

  -Juror Number Five may be excused.

  The black MBA stood up. Mr. Sloan thanked him. The Sophist tilted his head toward me and raised an eyebrow.

  -What’d I tell you.

  It was like the NBA draft, only in reverse. You identify the most talented individual, the guy with the leadership skills and the presence, and if the opposition doesn’t beat you to it, you use one of your picks to have him removed from the league. Ladies and gentlemen, with their first pick, the Chicago Bulls cut Michael Jordan. A reverse draft and then a reverse lottery. No number 51, please, anything but 51. The clerk called out seven numbers, none of them 51. Yes! Seven new candidates heading for the jury box, thirty-three prospective jurors still safe behind the bar, five total peremptory challenges remaining.