I put the book aside—threw it down, actually—and checked on Marissa. It really was the perfect metaphor for our sort of relationship: me squirming anxiously in the front seat, unable to go anywhere, unable to leave while she needs protecting, waiting for her to wake up. Wake up and what?
-Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you’ve listened to the witnesses, you’ve heard the evidence, the rest is up to you.
The conference was over, and Sloan was standing in front of us, where he had begun six days earlier, back to playing the efficient public servant.
-I’ll make this brief. It’s pretty simple, really. The defendant confessed.
He ran through his case, and I found myself refuting every step. Mr. Jack seen near the crime scene acting suspiciously. (Not all that near, Mr. Sloan.) Mr. Jack with a history of gang involvement. (Yeah, eleven years ago he got a tattoo.) Mr. Jack confessed to the killing. (Or so says a drunk police informant.) My silent objections didn’t slow Sloan’s sloganeering.
-I’ll say it again, Mr. Jack confessed. Opportunity. Mr. Jack was there that night. Motive. A turf war was heating up—Crips and Latinos—and he shot a rival gang member. Opportunity, motive, and when the police arrested him, Mr. Jack confessed. Your job now is to weigh the evidence and, if you believe Mr. Jack is responsible for the death of Juan Castro, find him guilty and put him away for a long time, get him off the street so he can’t hurt anyone else.
As Sloan concluded, I looked over at Bud Jack—steely-faced as always. I still couldn’t get a read on him. I knew Bailiff Bonaparte hid his shortcomings in stern self-righteousness. I could tell Judge Silverson had a wild streak behind the schoolmarm façade. Sloan took comfort in the certainty of law. Lawson had a warm heart and little ambition. But the one person I couldn’t decipher was the one person I had to judge. Yo, brother, move your right hand if you’re innocent, raise your left if you killed him, nod if it was self defense. Nothing.
The Mouse—how far did his telepathy reach? If all this time he’s been eavesdropping on Bud Jack’s silent thoughts, then I’m voting however he votes, simple as that. Hey, Mighty Mouse, can you intercept brainwaves from across the room? He blinked his eyes. Tell the truth, Mouseketeer, or I’ll get you laughing again, I know you’re listening, you want to hear more about Sigrid’s hooters? He scrunched his nose and turned away. They’re bigger than your head.
Lawson approached the jury box, limping slightly.
-Did Bud Jack really confess to murdering Juan Castro? No. Did he confess to killing anyone? Only according to a drunk prisoner who, by his own admission, had exchanged hostile words with Bud Jack and then was pressured by the police.
With his palms splayed open, the same sympathetic pose he had welcomed us with on day one, Lawson now reminded us that we must find his client not guilty unless the prosecution had convinced us beyond a reasonable doubt.
-That means no doubt. No maybe’s, no probably’s, not most likely, not he might have, not chances are, not he could have, not I bet he did it. Beyond a reasonable doubt. And in this case there is much reason for doubt.
He recited a long list: the absence of evidence tying Bud Jack to the scene of the crime, the so-called gang expert’s lack of experience in Long Beach, the inconsistent conditions in the police lineup, the unreliable testimony of Victor Ruiz. Bud Jack, Lawson insisted, was an innocent man on the wrong street at the wrong time.
-Other people have jumped to crazy, unsupported conclusions. Gang member. Drug dealer. Murderer. You know better, don’t you? You know he is no threat to society. In fact, he does everything society asks of him. Supports his grandmother. Runs an honest business. Provides another man with a paying job. Bud Jack is regularly welcomed through the gates of Leisure World because they know he does good work and means no harm. And he keeps his room spotless.
A few people chuckled. Lawson limped back to the defense table and put a hand on Bud Jack’s shoulder.
-It has been difficult for my client to sit here quietly, keeping his emotions in check, while being falsely accused of terrible things, but now you can do the right thing and find him not guilty.
Lawson sat down and Judge Silverson began giving us instructions. Choose a foreperson. Consider all the evidence. Give everyone a chance to speak. Clean your plates if you want dessert. I wasn’t really listening. I was anticipating our cue, and when it came I jumped to my feet. A door next to the jury box opened, and somewhere a giant unseen vacuum cleaner sucked us out of the courtroom. I pushed The Mouse aside, squeezed by The Elephant, darted ahead of several sluggish backbenchers, got my hands on the chair Gramma Jamma was gunning for, and when the dust had settled around the big table in the jury room, Juror One was seated next to Juror Six.
-Roya, how are you?
She giggled and smiled that smile.
-I’m good.
-Have you got this thing figured out?
-No, not really. Have you?
Believe it or not, yes, I had made up my mind. Or, rather, it was made up for me. Not by Lawson’s closing statement. Not by Sigrid or Richard or Marissa or anything like that. In retrospect, I guess I had done a pretty good job of not discussing the case, except when a few words were necessary to avoid hurt feelings or kicks to the shinbones, and even then I was careful to stick to factual reporting and not raise the question of guilt. In my mind, too, it was like I had half ignored my own thoughts, didn’t put two and two together even though four was staring me in the face. Without really trying, I had suspended judgment, kept an open mind—you were right, Uronor, Juror Number One was a keeper after all—and at the moment the defense rested, I was more focused on where I would sit in the jury room than where I would stand on the verdict. But once the sullen little bailiff had closed the door on us, it was like being set free, like somewhere a giant unseen vacuum cleaner had sucked away every ounce of inhibition, a fog was lifted, truth was revealed, suddenly I knew: Bud Jack was innocent. Not innocent like the evidence is ambiguous, the prosecution failed to make a compelling case, we have to turn him loose. Innocent like he should sue the police for wrongful arrest, ask millions in damages, because there’s no way he did it, he never should have been tried. Forget the cold, steely stare, the gang tattoo, the odd behavior at the bus stop—Bud Jack did not kill Juan Castro. Physiological certainty. I’d heard the witnesses, observed their body language, and I just knew.
An awkward hesitation permeated the room—twelve self-conscious jurors unsure how to proceed—and I was just about to say look, there’s obviously no case here, let’s skip all the hand-wringing, tell the judge not guilty, and get home in time for lunch and a power nap, when Chatty Chad took charge.
-Okay, folks, I guess we need to pick a foreman.
The Elephant objected immediately.
-Foreperson. The judge said—
-Right. Sorry. Anyone interested in the job?
-I vote for this young man. He’s a schoolteacher.
Gramma Jamma, seated to my right, had her hand on my forearm. I shook my head.
-No, I wouldn’t be good.
I wouldn’t be good because the foreperson has to communicate with the one person who always looks like he wants to teach the teacher a lesson—Bailiff Sourpuss. I leaned over to Roya and whispered.
-You want to be foreperson?
-No way.
-It would be easy for you. Just tell everyone to say ahhh.
Another giggle, but not the vacuous, air-headed giggle so carefully cultivated by girls at Dana Hills High. Is it only in America that stupidity is a virtue?
-Alexis, why don’t you have your algebra book in front of you?
-I’m sorry, Mr. Fletcher. I couldn’t remember what I needed from my locker.
Giggle, giggle.
-How many weeks have you been coming to this class?
-I know, I’m sorry, I was in a hurry and couldn’t think. So I just grabbed my tennis socks.
Giggle, giggle, airy laugh, and a shameless smile for the class because if I can get awa
y with obliviousness and distractedness, I must really be something special.
No, Roya’s giggle was different—one part bashfulness and three parts genuine bemusement. Roya’s giggle was charming. At least to me.
-Why don’t you take it, Chad?
It was like by design: Chad calls for volunteers and then one of his Mod Squad buddies nominates him. No one else seemed particularly interested, and Chatty Chad got the job. Isn’t that how dictatorships begin?
Chairman Chad read aloud some additional instructions, and again I was choreographing my next move instead of listening. We could be done before lunch, verdict rendered, jury dismissed, and once she was out the courtroom door with her cell phone to her ear it would be too late. I would have to be ready to move quickly, not get penned in, maybe another leap from the jury box—to hell with Ol’ Sourpuss—and I would need a good line. Roya, do you ever hang out in Laguna Beach? Too passive. Roya, maybe we can stay in touch. Too vague. I mean, if she says I don’t think so, or I’ve got a boyfriend, or you’ve got to be joking, the humiliation will only last until I disappear into the anonymity of the freeway, safe from the embarrassment of ever seeing her again, so might as well just come right out and ask. Roya, would you go out with me, I mean like a date? Roya, I’d love to buy you dinner, get to know you better, have I mentioned my real name is Guillam? Roya, want to clean my teeth? I looked at her. No reaction. No telepathy, thank God. I looked across the table at The Mouse. He looked away.
-I think he did it. I really do.
Lady Yoga was sitting to Chad’s right, and he had asked her to speak first.
-Why do you think that?
-I guess because he was there. They saw him, right? And then he told that guy he killed a Mexican.
The Elephant scoffed loudly at Lady Yoga.
-You mean the drunk? That witness was sketchy at best.
Lady Yoga looked confused—had she said something wrong? One of the chivalrous Mod Squadders jumped in to defend the damsel from the advancing beast.
-The detective said the witness was sober.
The Elephant thundered forward.
-No, that was the next day. He was drunk when he talked to Bud Jack. He said so himself.
-That doesn’t matter.
-Doesn’t matter?
The Elephant wrapped her trunk around a small tree, tore its roots from the ground, and hurled it toward the brave knight, who deflected it with his shield. Or maybe I’m getting carried away. Chairman Chad raised a hand to restore order.
-Let’s let her finish, okay?
Lady Yoga shook her head.
-That’s really all I had to say.
The gallant Mod Squadder spoke next. We were going counter-clockwise around the table.
-The witness who can’t be trusted is the gang member who said Bud Jack wasn’t in a gang. I mean, come on, the police said he was in a gang, the police said he was acting suspiciously, the police said he confessed, and who are you going to trust, a gang member or the police? I’m going with the police.
-Thank you, Mike.
Moderate Mike nodded and ceded the floor to Giraffe and a Half.
-My only concern is there’s nothing tying him to the crime scene, like fingerprints or DNA or whatever. And nothing about the gun. But other than that, I’m leaning toward guilty.
Oh, other than that. Other than the absence of any material evidence whatsoever. There’s an old African proverb: Don’t stand near a leaning giraffe. Or there should be, because you could tell she was begging to be toppled. Moderate Mike obliged.
-Don’t you believe the confession?
-I guess I do.
What trial did these people see? I thought I was the one who dozed off during testimony, whose mind wandered and made up stories, who got lost and ended up in the wrong courtroom. I thought yoga instructors were open-minded, giraffes forgiving, and moderates reasonable. I thought we would agree to not guilty and be home by noon. But it was like they had tuned out Lawson’s entire defense. Chairman Chad signaled the other Mod Squadder.
-You’re up, Mark
Moderate Mark agreed with Moderate Mike.
-Yeah, I think he’s got it right. It comes down to do you trust the cops on this one, and they wouldn’t go to all this trouble unless they were sure they had their man.
Moderate Mike agreed with Moderate Mark.
-Exactly. Those guys know what they’re doing. They’re the experts.
-That’s right. And we’re not.
They must have planned this out: Chad, you run the meeting and we’ll argue for conviction. That’s why I always saw them huddling in the hallway. It was a moderate conspiracy.
-I’m not convinced. Police sometimes…police…they make mistakes.
The Mouse had a nasal voice, high-pitched but cigarette raspy, like Professor Penguin without the lisp, and he squirmed in his chair as he spoke, eyes darting left and right, nose sniffing the air for trouble. Moderate Mark pounced.
-What mistake do you see here?
-I don’t know. Just something seems…something’s missing…like that proves it…proves he really did it.
Way to go, Mighty Mouse, don’t let those cats slap you around. The Mouse nodded nervously. Chad pawed at him.
-So you don’t believe the confession?
-Well, what he said was…what the guy said…the witness…he said the…he said Bud Jack said he popped a Mexican. That’s kinda vague.
Attaboy, Mouse, you the man!
Moderate Mike wasn’t having it.
-But think about it, they arrest a guy they think killed a Mexican, but tell him he’s arrested for drugs or something, and then without being asked he says he killed a Mexican. If that’s just a coincidence, we’re talking like one in a million.
The Mouse shrugged and scurried back into his hole. Wait, Cheese Whiz, don’t back down, one-in-a-million happens all the time. To me anyway. The Mouse nodded but said nothing. The Elephant raised her trunk.
-I know it’s not my turn, but you said we’d go around the room and have everyone give their first impression, and I’m sorry, but whenever someone expresses a little doubt you guys start arguing with him.
The brave knight drew his sword.
-You did the same thing.
Chairman Chad interceded.
-No, she’s right, let’s let everybody get their two cents in, and then we’ll open it up.
Juror Number Three, the nerdy guy, adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat.
-I agree the case has some holes, by why didn’t the defense put Bud Jack on the stand and let him give his side of the story? Pretty damning, if you ask me. Pretty damning.
The Elephant waited a polite, exaggerated moment, making sure El Nerdo was finished, then took her turn.
-First of all, I weighed all the evidence like the judge said to, and right now I’m not convinced beyond a reasonable doubt, and the main thing, I guess you can tell, is I don’t believe the confession, not only because the witness was drunk that night, but he and Bud Jack had words in the cell, they didn’t like each other, so the witness could easily have made up a story to get back at Bud Jack.
-But still that’s some coincidence, saying he killed—
-Let me finish. See, that’s what I was talking about.
-Sorry. You’re right.
-I think it’s very possible that the cops asked him if Bud Jack said anything about trouble with a Mexican guy, and he told them what they wanted to hear. The witness was biased against Bud Jack, and that’s a reasonable doubt if you ask me. Now, you’re next.
She motioned quickly to Cowboy Kev before the Mod Squad could issue a rebuttal. Turned out, Cowboy Kev was one of them.
-I’m with you guys. I don’t got a problem with the confession. The guy was walking around the streets that night acting weird. He was up to something.
Roya followed Cowboy Kev.
-I don’t know, I really don’t. It’s like when the one lawyer talked, I believed in him, and then the ot
her one talked, and I would go back and forth, you know what I mean?
-So it sounds like you’re undecided.
Chairman Chad made a note with a pen. Was he keeping score? A quick unofficial tally: with seventy-five percent of precincts reporting, I count six votes for guilty, two for not guilty, and one lovely undecided. But let’s be realistic, The Mouse will cave under moderate pressure. The Elephant was a different story. She wasn’t going to budge, her body language said it all. While speaking, she kept a thick elbow planted on the tabletop like she was ready to arm wrestle all comers, and when she was quiet, she leaned back in her chair and folded her big-rig forearms in front of her, confident in her inertia: not guilty all the way.
-Okay, Fletcher, whata you think?
Whata I think? One part of my brain was ready with a joke: I can’t decide if I’m undecided or not. Maybe that would lighten the mood in the room.
-I can’t—
Some other part of my brain, probably my prefrontal cortex, stopped me: don’t say it, Roya will think you’re mocking her.
Okay then, my prefunny cortex advised, tell them you think the defendant is not guilty and Juror Six is hot.
No, replied the prefrontal cortex, if you say not guilty, I guarantee The Elephant will plop down next to us at lunch with her stinky food and want to commiserate.
Good point, a third sector of my brain chimed in, and I’m getting hungry.
-Fletcher?
Everyone was looking at me, waiting, but my brain was still squabbling with itself.
Grisham's Juror Page 21
