-Not cigarettes. I mean pot.
-Thank you, Mr. Repetti.
-Some of them, we could probably get medical approval.
We were gathered in the wake of the latest school shooting—three dead including the shooter at a junior high in Nebraska. Captain Safety had come up with a remarkably long list of recommendations, most of them (hallway cameras, panic buttons) intended to get him (sniper rifle, body armor) on the scene as quickly as possible, some of them (classroom telephones, remote-locking doors) with great potential for student pranks, and none of them preventive. Which is where Pete came in.
-I’m telling you, no way a stoner shoots up the cafeteria.
-Mr. Repetti, thank you.
He thinks like a sophomore, but he’s always thinking—and now, in hot pursuit of the Wilhites, he was inspired.
-Dude, you said her husband was arguing with the neighbor over their ocean view, right?
-So?
-Design review board. You can’t remodel your house without approval from the city. It’s all public.
Through the magic of internet, within seconds Pete was able to find the city website, pull up the minutes from board meetings, scroll through the addresses of designs under dispute, and there it was, a complaint against 327 Hummingbird Lane by Richard Wilhite, immediate neighbor to the north.
-Let’s go. We’ll take my car. It’s a stake-out vehicle.
He was up off the couch, searching for his keys.
-A minivan?
-They always sit in a van when they’re tapping your phone. The guy in the back has those big headphones on his ears. Come on. I’ve got binoculars. We’ll park across the street and watch.
-No.
-We’ll bring beer.
-You’re crazy.
-On your feet, soldier. We’ve got a mission.
When Pete Repetti gets the impulse for an adventure, there’s no stopping him, and when he designates you as an accomplice, it’s harder to dodge than jury duty.
-Someone will see us and call the cops.
-Okay, then we’ll just go knock on the front door.
-And say what?
-Dude, oh, dude, this is brilliant. We’ll buy a pizza and pretend we’re pizza delivery with the wrong address. Grab the beer, will you.
Keys and wallet, cap and flip-flops, he was ready to roll.
-I don’t see how this is going to tell us why her husband wants me on the jury.
-No, I just want to get a glimpse of those disproportionates.
3
If you are going to lie, don’t hesitate—that’s what I learned from the Holocaust. Every year, the students in Mrs. Dietz’s English class read the memoir of a Jewish concentration camp survivor, or at least they carry the book around school, and I’ve thumbed through it once or twice. When the guy is caught stealing potatoes, he has his lie ready. He smoothly gives the German guard his old phone number instead of his prisoner number, and later the guard can’t pick him out of the work crew. That’s why he was a survivor. Some prisoners, he wrote, didn’t know how to lie, didn’t know when to steal, no street smarts, and they didn’t last long. That would be me.
-How’s your dog doing?
-My dog?
-Didn’t you say your dog was sick?
It was Juror Number Four, the heavy-set woman.
-Oh. Yeah. He’s better. Thanks.
-Good. I’m glad. Dogs are wonderful. I wish I could have one. I thought you said it was a she.
-Really?
-Because that’s what reminded me of Sugar. She was such a sweetheart. I had to give her up because I’m allergic. You didn’t say she?
We were in the hallway outside the courtroom on a recess from the morning proceedings, twelve perfect strangers forbidden to discuss the one thing we had in common.
-My name is Cheryl, by the way. What kind is he?
-What?
-What kind of dog?
-A mutt, I guess.
Heavy-set is a euphemism and, in this instance, an understatement. There was no way around it, Cheryl-by-the-way was obese. No way around her, either. My back was to the wall, she had planted herself in front of me, and she wanted to talk.
-Mutts make great pets. Very loyal.
A pudgy smile. Layers of chin.
-Sugar was a cockapoo. Such a little sweetheart.
Arms the size of my legs.
-I thought a cockapoo would be okay for me. They don’t shed.
Memory like an elephant’s.
-I’d swear you said she.
The arrival of the yoga instructor saved me.
-Hi, I’m Cheryl. Didn’t you say you were from Baltimore?
I fled down the hall to where three other jurors, three paunchy men, were testing the limits of free speech. I casually listened in.
-So whata you think?
-Kinda slow so far.
-That guy sure can talk.
They looked to be in their fifties, graying hair half-heartedly combed, probably veteran fathers and husbands, guys who come home from work and flip on the tv.
-How long you think this’ll last?
-Judge said a week, right? And the deliberations of course.
-That probably won’t take too long.
A pause. Was that too far? Judge Silverson had started the day with a pleasant welcome back, then sharply reminded us we weren’t to discuss the case—Are we all clear on this?—not even with other jurors. Well, a little vague patter about courtroom conduct can’t hurt, Your Honor, not among responsible adults.
-Ever been on a jury before?
-No, first time. You?
-Once, ten years ago. Just a civil case.
-Seems like this might get interesting.
-I don’t know. After hearing that attorney—
-The first guy?
They noticed me eavesdropping and checked themselves, as if I might object to a few harmless words about a lawyer’s demeanor. I wanted to say something to put them at ease, let them know I wasn’t the obnoxious jerk with the cell phone from the day before.
-The first guy reminds me of that sports announcer, the one who does college football.
They turned toward me and nodded. They weren’t Laguna types, and definitely not Newport Beach, no dismissive airs, not enough energy invested in appearances, maybe north county, like from Brea or Fullerton. One of them grinned.
-Sure, I know who you mean. Guy they caught with the hooker.
The others chuckled. It seldom fails—you mention football or baseball, and everything’s cool. The male sports bond, Marissa called it. They resumed the color commentary.
-Reminds me more of a salesman. Ladies and gentlemen this, ladies and gentlemen that.
-I guess they gotta be a salesman.
-The second guy—I liked him better. His way of talking, I mean.
First guy meant Sloan, whose opening statement had kicked off the morning show.
-Ladies and gentlemen, the defendant Mr. Jack killed Juan Castro, shot him in the head in cold blood, and I’m going to prove it to you. Some cases are complicated, in some cases the evidence is confusing and it’s hard for a jury to decide, but in this case, ladies and gentlemen, you will see the case against Mr. Jack is simple and straightforward. You will hear from eyewitnesses who saw Mr. Jack fleeing the crime scene. You will hear an expert on street gangs explain Mr. Jack’s motive for killing Juan Castro in cold blood. You will hear a confession. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Jack confessed to the crime. So it’s going to be a straightforward case. The defense attorney, Mr. Lawson, is going to try to confuse you. That’s his job.
Sitting in the jury box, struggling to stay awake, I was already confused. How is this going to take a week? If the defendant confessed, let’s just hear what he said and call it a wrap. I could still get back to Laguna and be napping on the beach before the morning fog burned off. Maybe a certain dark-haired juror would go with me.
My alarm had bleated at six a.m., plenty of time to eat br
eakfast with the sports section and pick up a latte on the way to the freeway, except I slipped right back into unconsciousness. A late night stake-out will do that to you. I woke up in panic at seven, out the door by seven-fifteen, and, mother of all miracles, Friday morning traffic on the 5 Freeway was moving. Inside the courthouse, the wait at the security checkpoint was short, no metal detectors going off. When I reached the elevator, the door was opening. The stars were aligned. I entered the fifth-floor courtroom two minutes before eight, sleep still in my eyes as I looked around for a cup of coffee. Surely Judge Silverson would want her jurors alert and perky on day two, surely the county taxpayers will provide for our waking needs, surely I jest. The only refreshment the county provided was the drinking fountain outside the restrooms, and I can’t manage plain water on a morning stomach. I could, however, manage a morning smile for a lovely Latina. I’m not sure what the stuff is properly called—shadow? pencil?—but her eyes were sharply drawn and her long eyelashes seemed to wave hello when she smiled back. Better than caffeine, almost. Her dark curls fell softly on a crisp white blouse. Obviously, she hadn’t overslept. Did she notice my same green polo shirt, two days running? I hoped not. I should have introduced myself, said good morning, something. I wasn’t at my best, I wasn’t sharp. I hesitated, and The Elephant moved in.
-Hi, I’m Cheryl, by the way.
-I’m Roya.
-You’re the dental hygienist, right?
I already knew what I would say to Pete: I could use a good flossing.
After Mr. Sloan had finished laying out his case—Motive, opportunity, confession, ladies and gentlemen, all crystal clear—Mr. Lawson stood up to muddy the waters. Once again, the slight limp, the open palms.
-I ask you to keep an open mind. Eyewitnesses can be unreliable, so-called experts can be wrong. I will show you—no, you will see for yourselves—that there was no confession. My client, Bud Jack, is a decent man. He didn’t shoot anybody. No one saw him shoot anybody. No one saw him with a gun. In fact, there is zero material evidence tying my client to this unfortunate event.
Bud Jack caught me looking at him. He betrayed nothing, just the same cold stare.
-My friend, Mr. Sloan, told you that the case is clear. What is clear is that the case against my client is entirely circumstantial. Bud Jack was walking down the wrong street at the wrong time and the police picked him up. He didn’t confess to anything because he had nothing to confess to. Just because he was walking down the wrong street does not make him guilty. Just because he was arrested does not make him guilty. Just because he is sitting over there, worried and scared, does not make him guilty. Remember, unless the prosecutor can convince you otherwise, convince you beyond a shadow of a doubt—and I don’t think he will—you must find Bud Jack not guilty.
Mr. Lawson kept looking my way and frowning. He had to convince at least one juror that the surly black man at the defense table, the only black man in the entire courtroom, had been wrongly arrested, and his most likely candidate, his great white hope, could barely keep his eyes open. Sorry, Lawson, I had a rough night, but whose fault was that?
Pete had been in rare form. A warm summer evening, a couple of beers, nothing but midseason baseball on the television—a recipe for pointless recklessness, the one dish Pete can cook. Pete and his wife once had a patio table until she went to visit her mother and Pete decided we needed to remove the legs and use the round tabletop as a raft. The Voyage of The Bagel, he kept calling it. We made it halfway across Dana Point harbor. The marriage sunk three months later. The following July, after Pete had resurfaced from his depression and ensconced himself in The Cave, we filled his minivan with every box of rock salt available from every nearby grocery store in an inspired attempt to corner the market during homemade ice cream season. Pete kept the car running—Just in case, dude—while I filled the grocery carts. A speculative failure, perhaps, but a certain PE teacher who had called Pete an asshole at graduation in June soon learned how difficult it is to remove two hundred pounds of sodium chloride from a dying front lawn. The dumbest ideas, we agree, have the greatest potential for mischief, which was why Mission Disproportionates worried me. It was also why, at nine on a Thursday night, I was riding shotgun rather than heading home for a decent night’s rest. If things got crazy, I wanted to be there.
-One more thing. When you listen to the prosecution’s witnesses, you may find yourself believing them. These witnesses are going to tell you what they presume to be true about my client, Bud Jack. But listen closely and you will realize that they don’t know him. They know nothing about him. This is not one of those crime-and-punishment television shows where the prosecutors are the good guys and the defense attorney, who you never really meet, is simply an obstacle to justice. Jurors sometimes mistake those shows for reality, and they mistake true life trials for one of those shows. Bud Jack is not just the expendable bad guy on the latest episode. He is not a television actor. Bud is a human being, just like you, just like me, with friends and family, a job, hopes for the future. And he’s relying on you to give him a fair hearing.
Lawson’s eyes came to rest on me. If I hadn’t been so tired, I might have stared back and defiantly folded my arms, let him know I’m no pushover: you want me to hang this jury, Mr. Defense Attorney, you’re going to have to earn your paycheck. If I had been more disciplined, I would have held back, played it tight, close to the vest. Instead, I grinned. I couldn’t help it. I like it when I know something about someone, something they would prefer kept secret, and they don’t know I know. Marissa said it comes from a need for control. Whatever, it’s still fun. Lawson asked that we afford his client a fair hearing, and I grinned. His eyes narrowed, like some grave thought was crossing his mind, and I smiled, I almost laughed. That’s right, big guy, I might look half awake, one more ill-informed citizen-juror for you to patronize and persuade, but I know who has retained your services, I know who’s funding Bud Jack’s defense, and that’s not the half of it.
Finding Hummingbird Lane had been easy. We parked around a corner and walked back up the street. I thought we should stay in the van, but Pete insisted there was no reason to be sneaky.
-Relax. We’re just two guys taking a nighttime stroll in Laguna.
-You don’t think we look suspicious?
-No, we look gay.
-Oh, that’s a comfort.
The property of interest, like the entire neighborhood, like every neighborhood in Laguna—people hunkered down in front of the tv or computer, no porch-sitters shooting the breeze, no children playing tag in the street—was quiet, almost sterile, like those comfort-food paintings they sell downtown with everything perfect—the glowing cottage, the pastel sunrise reflected in the placid creek, the gentle footpath, no people. Just north of 327, a hand-painted mailbox indicated 331. Rose bushes surrounded a neat patch of lawn. A tastefully placed bench, flanked by flower pots, invited you to sit and ponder the patch of lawn next door. Garage door closed, no car in the driveway, no sign of life in the front rooms of the house, yet light blazed from every window. Not exactly eco-friendly, Sigrid. We circled the block—no alley, no way to peer into the backyard. Now what?
-Dude, let’s hop the fence.
-And get arrested? No, thanks.
-Then I’m ringing the doorbell.
-No, keep walking. There’s a car coming.
Four houses down, we stopped and looked back. The car had pulled into Sigrid’s driveway. A car door slammed.
-Come on. Hurry.
-Don’t run.
We should have run. When we got close, a large man was disappearing through the front doorway. I recognized him immediately.
-I know that guy. You know who that was?
-Her husband. The smug guy in the photo. But that’s not who we came to see.
-No, that was the guy’s lawyer. The defense attorney.
-Is this more of your Grisham stuff?
-No, I swear.
Would I? Would I swear in court it was Mr.
Lawson entering 331 Hummingbird Lane? Would my testimony hold up on cross-examination?
-Tell us, Mr. Fletcher, could you see his face?
-Not really.
-Not really? Was he facing you?
-No.
-Did he turn and look your way?
-No.
-How far were you from the house that night?
-Maybe one hundred feet. Maybe a little less.
-How long was he in your view?
-Not very long.
-Would you say one second—one-thousand-one?
-Maybe.
-Maybe half a second? A split second?
-It’s hard to say.
-So you really can’t be sure it was him, can you, Mr. Fletcher?
-It was him. When he stepped into the house, I knew. I could feel it.
-Mr. Fletcher, had you been drinking?
It didn’t matter. After Lawson had finished his opening statement, taken in my sleepy grin, and limped back to his chair, I was more convinced than ever—like when I knew my juror number would be called, that same sense of calm, the same physiological certainty. That was his Lexus parked in Sigrid’s driveway last night, that was definitely his big frame filling the doorway.
After the recess, after I had escaped The Elephant and talked sports with the guys, we solemnly filed back into the jury box, and Mr. Sloan called as his first witness the police detective who had surveyed and documented the crime scene. On television, this goes quickly—signs of struggle, scattered wallet contents, pool of blood. In our true life trial, as Lawson had put it, this took several hours. Sloan apparently thought it critical that we learn the precise dimensions of the fateful parking lot, the location of the street lamps, the amount of graffiti decorating the dumpsters, and the detective was happy to comply. All those hours pounding the pavement, and he finally had an audience. And a diagram.
-The corpse was located here, behind what I’ve designated Refuse Receptacle A, face down, head due north, feet to the south. Underneath the corpse we found a plastic bag containing desiccated orange peels, also various glass shards and three pennies. Incidentals, most likely. Refuse Receptacles A and B were empty, all doors open, refuse collection was the day before.
Grisham's Juror Page 5
