We, the Jury

by Robert Rotstein

  “It’s not a self-defense instruction,” Cranston insisted. “The People are cool with a self-defense instruction. Ms. Blaylock wants a battered-husband instruction. In our state—”

  Blaylock rejoined, “After all those years of physical and mental abuse, David’s psychological state is completely relevant to—”

  “Amanda didn’t attack him, didn’t abuse him,” Cranston said. “It was the other way—”

  “Oh, she sure as hell did,” Blaylock said.

  I should have admonished her for using profanity, should have admonished them both for interrupting and arguing with each other rather than speaking to me. My head hurt—one of those migraines that split your skull like an ax. Unfortunate simile given the circumstances, but those headaches feel like that.

  I was leaning toward ruling for Cranston, was inclined to let the case go to the jury only on self-defense, when Blaylock snapped a finger like a genie granting her own wish. Her paralegal handed her some papers.

  “A short brief on the battered-spouse defense, Your Honor,” Blaylock said. “Look particularly at the Georgia Supreme Court case.”

  “I object!” Cranston said, his already pasty face turning pastier.

  Poor Jack. He’d been wearing his suit for hours, and he was so disheveled that he called to mind Jimmy Stewart at the end of his filibuster in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. As cold as it was in the courtroom, he reeked of body odor. Blaylock looked as if she had just come out of a resort hotel beauty salon and spa.

  I called a recess, read the defense counsel’s legal brief, undertook my own computer search to verify the accuracy of it—Blaylock had hardly proved trustworthy during the trial—and ordered the lawyers back into chambers. Cranston begged for a chance to submit a written response, but I was done with it. He should have come prepared, as Blaylock had. In hindsight, maybe I was too harsh.

  “We’ll include the battered-spouse instruction,” I said.

  Cranston sprang out of his chair. “But, Your Honor—”

  “Sit down, counsel,” I said. “That is my ruling.” What power there is in the judicial pronouncement! I swiveled my chair and turned away. I’ve rarely turned my back on a lawyer in my years on the bench. I’m not that kind of judge. Or wasn’t. Cranston didn’t deserve it.

  As soon as they left, I closed my eyes. I was already overcome with what Jonathan called judge’s remorse, which, oddly enough, seemed to dull my headache. I had erred on the side of the defendant, so it wasn’t that my ruling might put an innocent person behind bars. On the contrary, it could result in a guilty man going free—the better alternative if you’re going to screw something up. But what about Amanda Sullinger? I have an obligation to her, too. And to the citizens of the county. The postmortem photographs of Amanda are gruesome.

  Did I decide the most important issue in the case in Jenna Blaylock’s favor because of Jack Cranston’s BO?

  JUROR NO. 1

  THE FOREPERSON

  As soon as my sister and brother jurors sit down, I say, “I guess we should elect a foreperson.” A take-charge kind of girl, that’s me.

  The Housewife and the Architect—Frick and Frack, the mean girls—glance at each other. They probably think I’m lobbying to be foreperson. I don’t want to be foreperson. I just want to get things rolling. This has been a long trial, a really long trial.

  My face flushes menopausal hot. With my fair complexion, which is pale from working in a windowless file room during the week and staying inside on the weekends to avoid more skin cancer, probably everyone can see my cheeks turn red. That’s why they probably think I want to be foreperson, which I don’t. My cheeks turn redder, probably, because they think I want the job, and they have it wrong. Maybe I’ll say I’m having a hot flash. But I can’t, not with the Clergyman and the Grandmother and the Express Messenger in here—too embarrassing.

  If elected foreperson, I would serve.

  “I nominate the Jury Consultant,” says the Grandmother.

  “Great idea,” says the Student.

  Wow. The Student agrees with the Grandmother even after the Grandmother was racist and called her girl. The hot flash gets hotter, even though I don’t want to be foreperson. I never get picked for things like this. I’m not a popular girl. That’s because I’m an assertive woman, and people don’t like that, especially other women. Especially women like the Architect and the Housewife. On the second day of trial, I went to lunch at Subway, all alone, and the Architect and the Housewife were there, and they didn’t invite me to sit with them. It’s like I’m back in junior high, which they call middle school now. They won’t pick me for jury foreperson. The popular kids always win, and I was never popular, never pretty like the Architect.

  “I think the Jury Consultant is the perfect choice,” I say brightly.

  “It might not be a good idea, because of my job,” says the Jury Consultant. “I don’t want it to look like I’m controlling the deliberations—which won’t happen, of course—but making me foreperson could make it seem like I am. Why don’t you do it?”

  My heart beats faster, my flashes flash hotter, because the Jury Consultant is looking at me. At least, I think she’s looking at me, but I’m not sure, and I have a bad urge to look over my shoulder and check to see if someone’s standing behind me, but who would that be, since all of us are sitting at the table?

  “Oh, I’m …” I giggle, and my hands flutter on their own and cross over my chest because I’m a humble person. “Okay, but only if no one else wants to do it.”

  Everybody’s quiet. The Architect wriggles in her chair, and for a second, I think she’s going to volunteer. I know she’s going to volunteer, so I say, “I guess if no one else wants to, I’ll accept. I’m honored. I won’t let you down.”

  “You’re our new foreperson,” says the Jury Consultant.

  I really didn’t care if I got it, but that’ll show the Architect and the Housewife. I know those bitches didn’t want me. I won’t use my power against them like they would’ve done to me if they were the foreperson. I won’t take their snubs personally.

  “That’s settled,” says the Express Messenger. “Hopefully, we’ll go this fast with everything else, Madam Foreperson.”

  Is that “Madam” part a dig? He’s always doing digs at people.

  I take stock around the table. The Grandmother is leaning forward, like she’s trying to hear, but no one’s saying anything. The Jury Consultant is writing something on her notepad. The Student looks nervous, poor girl—uh, I mean woman. But she is a girl because she’s only twenty, younger than my son, so I’m not being racist. She’s in college, and my son … maybe he’ll go back to community college one day and get his associate of arts degree. (He lives in Arizona, working at a golf course as a caddy, hoping to get on the tour.) The Architect and the Housewife are sitting there, all snooty. The Clergyman is staring at me, picking at a thumbnail. How rude. He’s a large man, probably six-four, 275 pounds. Every day, he wears a suit with no tie. If he wore a tie, he’d look like the lawyers. His belly hangs over his belt buckle. He disappears every day at lunch and during the breaks, so I haven’t gotten to know him. Not that I know any of these people. But at least, I have a clue about them. Not about him. During voir dire, he seemed so nice and together and pious. He’s a mystery now. I respect religious people, but there’s something creepy about him, like you could see him being arrested as a serial killer or a pedophile or something like that. I know that’s mean, but that’s how I feel, and I’m an honest kind of girl. The Express Messenger is slumped in his chair, writing something on his notepad when nothing’s happening. On second thought, he’s doodling. I hope he isn’t drawing insulting pictures of me. People have done that before, making fun of my kinky hair or my weight.

  I pick up a pencil and tap it on the table three times to get their attention. “So I guess … before we start, does anyone want some co
ffee?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it,” says the Architect. “It smells like a burning tire.”

  “I’m going to get some coffee,” I say. “Anyone else?”

  No one accepts. I get up and pour the coffee into a styrene cup. I’m a little worried about that, because I’ve read that styrene causes cancer. They don’t have Splenda here, only aspartame and refined sugar. I pick the sugar as the lesser of two evils. I’ll ask the bailiff after court whether it’s okay to bring in my own coffee, cup, and Splenda. Unless we reach a verdict today, but I doubt that, but if we reach a verdict, I won’t bring coffee, because we won’t be here. I’ve kept an open mind like Judge Quinn-Gilbert instructed, but I know how I’m going to vote. How are you not supposed to draw conclusions after four weeks? We’re not birdbrains.

  The Architect really embarrassed me that morning when me and her and the Jury Consultant were in the elevator coming up to the courtroom. It was only the three of us, so what harm was there when I asked the Jury Consultant, “Do you think there’s still a chance David will plea-bargain?”

  The Jury Consultant shrugged.

  “It’s inappropriate to discuss the case,” said the Architect.

  “I’m not talking about the case,” I said. “I’m asking about something different. The Jury Consultant is the expert here.”

  “I’m no expert,” said the Jury Consultant.

  The elevator door opened right then, and the Architect walked out without waiting for us, her Jimmy Choo pumps tapping on the linoleum. Oh, my God, those shoes must’ve cost a thousand bucks. Her skirt was too short for court—too short, period. It was pleated, loose, and you could almost see her butt when she walked. Everyone knows she’s been hitting on the bailiff. Then there was the day she wore that denim mini, crossing and uncrossing her legs when David’s expert was testifying. I even think Cranston, the DA, was trying to look up her skirt—he sure lost points for that—and the Express Messenger was all over her during every break. Too bad for him, she sure shut him down fast. Still, how inappropriate. Who’s she to tell me I was inappropriate? I should’ve sent a note to the judge about it.

  “After you,” said the Jury Consultant, who held the elevator door for me, and then we lined up, me first because I’m juror number one.

  I take a sip of the coffee and burn my tongue, because they only have carcinogenic fake-dairy powder here, no real cream or milk to cool down the coffee, which tastes like charred toast dipped in scalding motor oil. I’ll drink it all, because I’m not going to give the Architect the satisfaction. I wish they had a fridge and some ice cubes in the jury room.

  “Moses and the burning coal,” says the Clergyman.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “You burned your tongue,” he says. “Are you all right?”

  “I didn’t burn …” The blush-flash comes again. “Yeah. Fine.”

  “The hand of the angel,” says the Clergyman.

  I have to remember to Google that phrase when I get home. I hope he’s not mocking me. Would a man of the cloth mock a girl like me?

  The others in the room look away uncomfortably, all except the Grandmother, who strains to hear.

  “It’s kind of interesting that there’s a big majority of women jurors,” says the Student in a soft voice.

  That’s an off-the-wall thing to say. I think maybe she’s just trying to change the subject, get us back on track.

  “Hello to you, too,” says the Express Messenger.

  “It’s just a coincidence,” says the Grandmother. “One of those things.”

  “It’s no coincidence; it’s a big gamble,” says the Architect. “The DA is betting that we women hate David because he’s a man who admitted to killing his wife, and the defense is betting that we’ll be less likely to convict, because we’re not driven by testosterone.”

  “As if people are alike just because of gender,” says the Student.

  “Coming from the woman who just said it’s interesting that there are so many women in here,” says the Express Messenger.

  “Yes, I said ‘interesting,’” says the Student. “I didn’t say it was good or bad.”

  I’m not sure exactly what’s going on. Do the Student and the Express Messenger have a thing going?

  I raise my hand, wave slightly to get people’s attention, then say, “To get started, why don’t we—?”

  “Isn’t that what you do?” the Architect asks the Jury Consultant. “Predict what kind of people will convict and which will acquit? You probably know how I’m going to vote already.”

  “I work with probabilities based on demographics,” says the Jury Consultant. “I’m not a psychic. During the past few weeks, I haven’t even been a psychologist. I’m a juror.”

  “I didn’t think they let people like you on juries,” says the Architect.

  “The metrics of jury selection have changed with the times,” says the Jury Consultant. “Attorneys get on juries all the time these days. Trial lawyers are just looking for fair-minded people of any occupation.”

  The Architect half shrugs. She’s rude.

  I like the Jury Consultant. She’s almost as pretty as the Architect, and she’s definitely classier. She always wears business casual, a nice blouse and skirt or dark slacks. Nothing skanky like the other one.

  “Can we get this show on the road?” says the Express Messenger.

  “Sure. Yeah,” I say. “So, I suppose the first order of business is to take a straw vote.”

  “I mean, like, shouldn’t we talk about the evidence first, at least for a little bit?” asks the Student. “I mean after a four-week murder trial and all?”

  “Yeah, no, I thought we should take a straw vote first, but we can talk first,” I say. “We’ll talk. Who’ll get the ball rolling?”

  “I will,” says the Housewife. “Amanda Sullinger was a monster.”

  JUROR NO. 43

  THE CLERGYMAN

  More than a few still-incredulous trial witnesses testified that the Sullingers, albeit a superficially mismatched couple, appeared to have a happy marriage. I have learned in my business that sometimes the opaque curtain called perception camouflages the ghastliest nightmares.

  “Amanda Sullinger was a monster,” the Housewife says.

  “Mentally ill,” the Architect says.

  Well, well. My prediction was mistaken. I had concluded that the Architect would lead, pulling the dowdy, repressed Housewife in tow. It is the other way around.

  “First thing—and I’m embarrassed to talk about this,” the Housewife says. “She seduced him when he was just a child.”

  She does not look embarrassed to talk about this.

  “I wouldn’t call him a child,” the Express Messenger says. “He was seventeen. And from the evidence, we don’t even know—”

  “He was sixteen,” the Housewife says.

  The Express Messenger shakes his head. “David testified—”

  “He testified sixteen,” the Housewife says. She turns to the Architect. “Wasn’t it sixteen?”

  The Architect nods.

  The Foreperson sits listening, tapping a pencil repeatedly on the table and creating an irritating metronomic sound. She stands and goes to the credenza, where the evidence binders are stacked. Her pear-shaped body and large behind confirm that she should not be wearing tight, white slacks. I had not anticipated that she would be foreperson. I predicted the Jury Consultant or the Architect or the Grandmother.

  The Foreperson fumbles with the documents for quite a while, eventually sighing in confusion.

  “Do you need help with something?” the Jury Consultant asks.

  The Foreperson’s face and neck turn splotchy, the patches appearing seriatim like a neon sign advertising her discomfiture. “I was just looking for the transcripts to see if David said he was sixteen or seventee
n when he first had relations with Amanda.”

  “We don’t have the transcripts in here,” the Jury Consultant says. “If we want to hear testimony, it has to be read in open court in front of the judge and lawyers.”

  Her complexion transforming from pink to crimson, the Foreperson says, “I could press the—is it the green or red button for a question?”

  “We don’t need to do that,” the Housewife says. “Sixteen or seventeen—what does it matter? He was a minor, she was in her late twenties—”

  “Midtwenties,” the Express Messenger says. “And sixteen or seventeen matters.”

  “It does not matter,” the Housewife says. “He was a minor, she was an adult, and she was his teacher. In a position of power. That’s the point.”

  “I agree that age doesn’t matter,” the Grandmother says. She conveys sweet old lady, but I see the lingering school vice principal. Sometimes her look is so sharp you feel like a student again. She puts both elbows on the table and gives that look to the Express Messenger. “I was a teacher. You do not ever sleep with your students. Even if you’re a college professor and they’re twenty-two-year-old seniors. It’s an abuse of power.”

  “Does seventeen versus eighteen matter?” the Express messenger says. The man is persistent, if nothing else.

  “Yeah, it does,” the Foreperson says, playing the perfect foil. “An eighteen-year-old is an adult.”

  “That’s just the law,” the Express Messenger replies. “But a law doesn’t change the truth about people. It’s arbitrary. What’s the difference between a kid who’s seventeen years old at eleven-fifty-nine the night before his birthday and an eighteen-year-old sixty-one seconds later? Absolutely nothing. A year might or might not make a difference. David was full grown at sixteen, physically mature. He admitted that on cross-examination. The prosecution showed pictures. He looked like a grown man.”

  “To this day, he has the emotional maturity of a teenager,” the Grandmother says. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is,” the Express Messenger says, then lifts his eyes to the cottage-cheese ceiling for guidance, “I don’t remember exactly what my point is. I forget because of all this … Except there isn’t much difference between a seventeen-year-old and an eighteen-year-old.”