Grisham's Juror

by Timothy Braatz

  The strange creatures reassembled a few hours later—eight a.m. sharp. Moderate Mike patted me on the back like an old friend and asked how I’d slept. Moderate Mark jumped to his feet and pulled out a chair for Giraffe and a Half. I could tell them apart now—Mike combed his thin hair over, Mark his thin hair back. The Elephant was explaining to El Nerdo that she’d read every Grisham, even the non-thrillers.

  -People say they aren’t as good, but I think it’s his best work. He should get more credit. Those New York critics just resent commercial success. I say more power to him.

  El Nerdo said he preferred the movie versions.

  -The screenwriters usually tighten up the endings.

  The Mouse caught my eye and nodded. How about you, Smokes, you read all of them? He nodded again.

  The order around the table was exactly the same. After all those years in school, we’re just more comfortable with assigned seating, even as adults. No one remembers the quadratic equation or what year the Civil War began, but form a single-file line, don’t take someone else’s seat—the lessons of social conformity stick. I wasn’t complaining, I still had the best seat in the house. Gramma Jamma greeted me with her irrepressible smile.

  -You look rested today, dear, you must be feeling better.

  Roya smiled too. I sat down and leaned in.

  -Did you get a shady spot?

  Giggle.

  -No, not hardly.

  The smile, the perfume, the hair.

  -Are we on for lunch?

  -Lunch? Oh. Maybe.

  If a lady says maybe, she means yes—unless she gives no indication of having said maybe the day before or even of having considered the invitation, in which case—I’m not stupid—maybe means indifference at best and, more likely, a cold-hearted no. Whatever. It’s hard to get upset after starting your day on a calm ocean in the company of half-sleeping, half-grinning cetaceans. Despite having returned to the concrete wasteland, despite the giant unseen vacuum cleaner sucking every ounce of air from the dismal, windowless jury room, despite the Mod Squad’s calculated friendliness and Roya’s sincere disinterest, my mind was still buzzing with pleasure. Have to ask Pete, but seems like, dude, dolphins trigger endorphins.

  -Folks, the bailiff informed me we won’t be going home early today.

  -What? No more bankers’ hours, Chad?

  -Nope. Unless, of course, we reach a verdict, and I’m sure none of us want to be back here tomorrow, right? So let’s see about wrapping this up today, okay? And that means sorry, but we’re gonna have to put some of you on the spot. Like you, Fletcher, we’re kinda hoping to hear from you. You back on your game today?

  -Yeah, I was even out surfing this morning.

  Out surfing—that was for Roya’s benefit. Out paddling doesn’t have the same cachet. Dogs paddle, surfer-dudes surf, and surfer-dudes are cool, the coolest white guys on the planet—tan, athletic, laid-back, soulful, biologique—that’s the image anyway, which I don’t totally understand because they’re really just glorified skateboarders, and skateboarders are dweebs, the little shits, they almost got Pete killed. They almost got Pete killed, which led to NPDDD and Marissa drinking herself silly and me spending a sleepless night in her car, the little shits.

  -I was out surfing and the water was super clear, like you could see fish, you could see the ocean floor.

  Dolphins too, but that’s my secret—I won’t betray my sleeping friends, not to this school of hammerheads.

  -And I started thinking.

  Surfing and thinking, Roya. Would you really choose an uptight, brain-dead, wannabe cowboy on a motorbike over a tan, athletic, laid-back, soulful, biologique guy who also thinks?

  -Yesterday my brain was in a haze, but today it’s like…like I can finally see the fish.

  I could hear my teacher’s voice emerging—confident, authoritative, insistent.

  -And there is something fishy about this case.

  I’m not sure where my corny little homily was coming from, but I had nothing to lose, and I had the room’s attention—no smirking, no patronizing smiles, no passive-aggressive body language from the Mod Squad—maybe because they know I’m a teacher, maybe just because it was still early.

  -I mean, the witness from the jail, the drunk guy, if he’s telling the truth like most of you seem to think, then the cops threatened to put him back in the cell with the dangerous black man. They told him the guy was dangerous. That’s what the witness testified. The cops threatened him, so he told them Bud Jack confessed.

  Moderate Mark objected.

  -Hold on a second. He didn’t say that was the reason he reported the confession.

  His tone was respectful, and I matched it.

  -You’re right. And it doesn’t prove he invented the confession either. But it does sound like they threatened him, and that’s at least a little fishy. Will you grant me that?

  Giraffe and a Half and Lady Yoga were bobbing in agreement. The Elephant spoke up.

  -That’s what I was saying yesterday.

  Moderate Mike jumped in, trying to regain control of the debate—or maybe just assert his manhood.

  -And what I was saying yesterday was it still doesn’t explain how the witness knew to invent a confession about killing a Mexican.

  -The police…they could have…the witness…I mean, what if they coached him?

  Mighty Mouse to save the day! The moderates scoffed, Cowboy Kev snickered, I raised my voice enough to cut them off.

  -I was thinking about this very point when I was on my surfboard. I mean, I’ve got nothing against cops. So why don’t I trust the cops on this one?

  -You mean you trust the defense witnesses? A gangbanger and a—

  -I mean something’s been nagging at me, and yesterday, when you wanted my opinion, I couldn’t place it.

  I had stayed with the dolphins for almost an hour, watching them thread through the webs of kelp, listening for their spluttery exhales whenever I lost them in darker water. When we passed Thalia Street, they cut away from the beach, making for open water. Reluctantly, I came out of my zone and I remembered I was Guillam Fletcher aka Juror One, and I had some place to be. One last time I counted the dorsals—ten, eleven, twelve, the dozing dozen, you guys take care—then turned and paddled for home, against the current and into a soft breeze.

  With the dolphins gone, my mind resumed its obsessive thought production. Driving to Santa Ana is going to suck. At least I get to have lunch with Roya. Maybe I can change her mind about Bud Jack. Is she interested in me? Is any woman interested in me? She did say goodbye to me when I was talking to The Sophist. Yeah, but then she was more focused on her cell phone.

  To block it out, I counted the strokes—one-two-three-four-switch sides, one-two-three-four-switch. I found a steady rhythm, leaning forward, knees slightly bent, pulling with my back muscles. One-two-three-four-switch. And suddenly it came to me: the timeline was off!

  -Remember what the detective said? He interviewed the witness, Victor Ruiz, on the morning of the fifteenth, after the guy had sobered up. They brought him in drunk the night before, so that must have been on the fourteenth. They brought him in, stuck him in the cell, and Bud Jack confessed, supposedly. On the night of the fourteenth. Right? But there was that other witness, the off-duty fireman who saw the suspicious guy at the bus stop. The fireman said the cops called him in three days later to look at a lineup—on the fourteenth. That’s what he testified.

  -Wait a second, Fletcher.

  I ignored him.

  -Do you see the problem? If the witnesses are right, the lineup was on the day of the fourteenth, and Victor Ruiz was arrested and heard Bud Jack’s confession on the night of the fourteenth. The lineup came before the confession. But the detective said they didn’t put Bud Jack in the lineup right away, they wanted to see if he might let something slip.

  -That’s true. The detective said the lineup came later.

  Excelente, El Nerdo, but what about the others? A good teacher reads the
students’ eyes, and I was seeing puzzlement and confusion. Still, they were attentive, they wanted to figure it out, even the moderates were waiting for more.

  -Let me put it this way: the fireman picked Bud Jack out of a lineup, said he was the suspicious guy at the bus stop, so the police think they’ve got the right guy, but they don’t have any other evidence to speak of. What are they gonna do, let the guy they think is a murderer go free?

  The Elephant finally caught on.

  -That’s it. That’s the motive we were asking about. The police threatened Victor Ruiz, or even coached him, because after the lineup they thought they had the killer.

  -Cheryl, that’s speculation.

  -Yes, but it’s reasonable. Reasonable doubt.

  Moderate Mike looked frustrated—he was running out of arguments.

  -So the cop mixed up the order of things? So what?

  Bingo! That’s what a teacher wants—skeptical students asking the right questions. The only thing missing now was a chalkboard.

  -Yes, I think that’s what we need to ask: 1) did the detective make an error, and does that 1a) mean he simply misspoke, or 1b) imply a degree of incompetence. Or 2) did the detective intentionally mislead us, and should we conclude 2a) he just wanted to convict a guilty murderer, or 2b) an innocent man was being framed?

  With that, I leaned back in my chair and let others do the talking. A good teacher helps students frame a question in a useful way, but also encourages debate, allows them to voice their own opinions, draw their own conclusions. The moderate argument was trust the police, and I’d offered a legitimate reason not to. I hadn’t told anyone what to believe, I’d only raised the issue. It was a start. Around mid-morning, we voted again: five for guilty, four for not guilty, and three undecided. When we took a bathroom break, I slowly thumbed a text message for Marissa: Good news jury split. She was at work, but I had a feeling I’d be seeing her tonight, seeing her in a good mood, because the more votes for not guilty, the less likely Sloan would want to retry the case, and I figured I had Gramma Jamma, The Elephant, and The Mouse on my side, plus Giraffe and a Half gave me a big smile and a half in the hallway, and I’d swear El Nerdo winked at me when Chairman Chad called us back to order.

  -Folks, I let the judge know where we’re at, and she said keep trying, so how are we gonna resolve this?

  -Well, I think it’s too bad folks don’t 5a) trust the cops any more.

  Thank you, Mopey Mike.

  The room was quiet. I looked over at Roya. Had she changed her vote? I’d be satisfied with a hung jury, I’d happily quit right now and throw Bud Jack’s fate to a new panel of jurors, if I knew that I’d at least convinced Roya, that I’d rustled her out of Cowboy Kev’s corral.

  -I have a question.

  Speak of the devil—Cowboy Kev, not Roya.

  -Could we agree on a lesser charge? Manslaughter or something.

  That got people talking again. Giraffe and a Half said she’d seen a jury do that on tv.

  -You sure it wasn’t in another Grisham?

  Thank you, Mopey Mark.

  Gramma Jamma asked what it means, and Chad enlightened her.

  -It means we find him guilty, but the sentence could be shorter. For example, you’re not comfortable convicting him of first-degree murder and sending him to prison for life, right? So could you say he’s guilty if you knew he’d only get ten years max or something like that? But I don’t know. We’d still have to ask the judge, because I don’t think a jury can just change the charges.

  -Why don’t we just convict him of being a black man on the street at night?

  It just came out. It came out when I noticed some heads bobbing at Chad’s mention of a shorter sentence. It came out when I heard Roya tell Cowboy Kev she thought his idea was a good one, really, because like a lesser charge would be fair, right? It came out and kept coming.

  -Because that’s what we’re doing here. We’ve got a roomful of white people, and we’re only going by what the white witnesses said. I’m not accusing anybody here of being racist.

  Except maybe Cowboy Kev, and the Mod Squad, and the five others who voted guilty yesterday.

  -But step back and see what this looks like. White people versus black people. Our word against theirs. And we’re totally ignoring theirs. Ignoring the grandmother. Ignoring the guy he works with. And the guy who—

  -We can’t trust them. They might be protecting him.

  -Exactly. You assume they’re lying and you assume the white officers are telling the truth. Like one of you said yesterday, there’s no hard evidence, no fingerprints, no bloody clothes, just a white guy saw a black guy on the street and picked him out of a lineup and that makes him guilty. Again, I’m not calling anyone racist.

  Why state the obvious?

  -I’m saying the prosecutor—it’s like he’s playing on our prejudices. Remember how quickly he rejected the two black jurors, even the businessman in the expensive suit? And the Latinos too. Is it really an all-white jury on accident? And then he brings this case with flimsy evidence knowing a white jury will fall for it, because white people are automatically suspicious of a black man on the street at night.

  -Now hold on.

  I waved him off and pointed toward Cowboy Kev.

  -This guy said it perfectly, he said Bud Jack was up to something. Right? And now he says we should convict him of a lesser charge or something, anything, like that’s a good compromise. Well, I say we send the prosecutor a message. We let him know that we’re not racist, we’re not prejudiced, and he shouldn’t insult us by bringing a case without real evidence, because we can see through shoddy police work and we’re not falling for a jailhouse snitch. Yeah, we’re average citizens, a bunch of working-class folks, right? But we’re not stupid.

  How about that, Grish?

  After my outburst, the deliberations turned ugly, voices were raised, I was accused of reverse racism and being some kind of crazy, leftwing liberal. I didn’t defend myself, I’d said my piece, I wanted to appear above the fray. Moderate Mike said he’d really like to know who he’d seen me talking to outside the courthouse yesterday, was that Bud Jack’s brother? The Elephant told him he was out of line. Lady Yoga suggested everyone take a few deep breaths. Moderate Mark suggested how ‘bout a few deep reality checks instead? The arguing went on for a while, we were hopelessly deadlocked, the jury was hung. Until two things happened that almost instantly turned the mood around. Gramma Jamma asked everyone to please stop shouting, this isn’t right calling people names. She had tears in her eyes and stood up like she was walking out. For a moment, the room was awkwardly quiet. Then Cowboy Kev made an announcement.

  -Okay, I gotta say something. I’m not gonna sit here and lie to you, I guess I didn’t totally presume innocence and that’s not right. I’m a standup guy, and Bud Jack deserves a fair shake same as I would want.

  Whoa! The cowboy switches horses midstream—who’da thunk it?

  That was the turning point. I could feel momentum shifting, the energy in the room transformed. It took a few more minutes, but eventually El Nerdo found the magic formula that allowed for a graceful change of vote.

  -We wouldn’t be saying he’s innocent, right? We’d be saying the prosecution didn’t make their case.

  Ka-thump!

  After that, it was almost too easy, like a Hollywood fairytale. Everyone was eager to get on board. No one wanted to appear prejudiced. Even Moderate Mike admitted to hasty conclusions.

  -Yeah, probably I just wanted to be right, the wife says I do that.

  The mood in the room was now satisfaction and relief—we’d overcome our differences, we were doing the right thing—and when we voted again a secret ballot was unnecessary. We returned to the courtroom—single file, no cutting in line—and took our seats. Judge Silverson instructed Chairman Chad to read our decision, asked us one by one to affirm the verdict, and then it was over, just like that. Not guilty.

  -Mr. Jack, you’re free to go. The jury is dismi
ssed. Court is adjourned.

  Whoo-hoo! School’s out for summer! The Mod Squadders wanted to shake my hand. Gramma Jamma reached out for a teary hug.

  -I knew you’d figure this out for us, dear.

  I glanced away from The Elephant’s friendly smile—an embrace from her would crush my ribs—and glued my eyes to those long black curls as they headed for the door.

  -Hey, Roya.

  -Oh.

  A quick hug. Her hair smelled like flowers. She was already turning on her phone. This was it. Suddenly my heart was racing, my face was flushing hot, but what the hell?