We, the Jury

by Robert Rotstein

  This is not fun. A man’s future is at stake.

  “Who wants to talk about Lacey?” the Foreperson asks.

  The Housewife raises her hand and starts talking without being called on. Of course she does.

  CHRISTINA KELLEHER, CSR

  I’ve transcribed the testimony of hundreds of witnesses. Always, I go into a kind of trance, and my mind leaves my body and becomes a cog of the stenotype machine, and the machine becomes me. Tina the Machine. My eyes are open, but vision exists only to read lips and process words. Have you ever heard a court reporter read back a question? We sound more automated than those eerie, nasal, vaguely Swedish-sounding electronic voices they used on early PCs. We give each word, each syllable, equal significance, which drains any emotional content that the speech might otherwise convey. We’re trained to be objective, because we’re cogs not only in the stenotype machine but also in the criminal-justice machine.

  It was hard to be objective when transcribing Lacey Sullinger’s testimony. She was one of the two most poised, confident, and appealing witnesses I’ve ever seen. My other best witness was a famous actor suing a fashion catalogue for ten million dollars for using his name and face. It later turned out that he was a big, fat liar.

  SUPERIOR COURT FOR THE COUNTY OF SEPULVEDA

  --------------------------------------------------------X

  PEOPLE

  v.

  DAVID BENNETT SULLINGER

  --------------------------------------------------------X

  JURY TRIAL—DAY 18

  Case No. 16-382

  BEFORE: Hon. Natalie Quinn-Gilbert, Superior Court Judge

  APPEARANCES:

  JOHN Y. CRANSTON, ESQ.

  Assistant District Attorney,

  Sepulveda County

  On behalf of the People

  JENNA MARIE BLAYLOCK, ESQ.

  On behalf of the Defendant

  TRANSCRIPT OF PROCEEDINGS

  Reported by Christina Kelleher

  Certified Shorthand Reporter

  Direct examination of Lacey Melinda Sullinger by Jenna Blaylock, counsel for the Defendant (excerpt):

  Q. Lacey, please describe your educational background.

  A. Of course. I went to the Sepulveda Academy from kindergarten through high school.

  Q. That’s a private school?

  A. Yes.

  Q. You seem embarrassed by it.

  A. Not embarrassed, exactly. I … I just always wonder whether things would’ve been different if I’d gone to public school. I don’t know why I say that. I guess I’m just grasping at straws. Anyway, Ms. Blaylock, you asked about my education. If you mean high school, I graduated with honors, finishing number four in my class. I played the clarinet in the school band. I was an editor of the school newspaper and also a member of the after-school computer and chess clubs. In the spring, I ran cross-country.

  Q. That sounds like a very heavy workload. Was there a reason why you had so many activities?

  A. My mother was very goal oriented. So when I told her I was going to do those activities, she was pleased. The real reason I signed up for those activities was so I wouldn’t have to come home as early in the day.

  Q. Why didn’t you want to come home?

  A. Because my mother was mentally ill. Abusive and violent, especially to my father, but also to my brother and me.

  Q. Are you in college, Lacey?

  A. Yes. I’m a sophomore at the University of Southern California.

  Q. What’s your major?

  A. Psychology, with an emphasis in marriage and family counseling. I don’t want other families to go through what my mother put ours through.

  MR. CRANSTON: Objection. Move to strike the second sentence.

  THE COURT: Sustained.

  THE WITNESS: Oh, I’m sorry.

  THE COURT: There’s no need to apologize, Ms. Sullinger. Objections are part of the process.

  THE WITNESS: Thank you, Your Honor.

  Cross-examination of Lacey Melinda Sullinger by John Y. Cranston, attorney for the People (excerpt):

  Q. Referring to your mother’s alleged abuse—

  A. Not alleged, Mr. Cranston. All too real.

  Q. Ms. Sullinger, referring to your mother’s alleged abuse, did you ever report it to a school counselor?

  A. No, sir.

  Q. To a teacher?

  A. No, sir.

  Q. To a friend?

  A. I didn’t have true friends, Mr. Cranston. My mother’s behavior made that impossible.

  Q. You had doctors, didn’t you?

  A. Yes. A pediatrician and, when I turned fifteen, a gynecologist. Oh, and an eye doctor and, of course, a dentist and an orthodontist.

  Q. Thank you for being so comprehensive, Ms. Sullinger.

  THE COURT: Watch the sarcastic tone, Mr. Cranston.

  MR. CRANSTON: Your Honor, I … Ms. Sullinger, you didn’t report your mother’s alleged abuse to your pediatrician or gynecologist, did you?

  A. No, I didn’t.

  Q. As far as you know, they didn’t suspect abuse.

  A. They testified in court that they didn’t. But I could never understand how they couldn’t figure it out, or at least ask … But that’s not fair. My mother was a genius at hiding stuff.

  Q. You mentioned that you had an orthodontist. He or she did a good job.

  A. She, and thank you. Dr. Madison Powell. We called her Dr. Maddie.

  Q. You liked Dr. Maddie?

  A. Yeah, she was great.

  Q. Did you have braces?

  A. Top and bottom, plus a headgear, rubber bands. I hated it.

  Q. Expensive?

  A. I was eight or nine, so I didn’t know then, but from an adult’s perspective, absolutely.

  Q. Did you need braces?

  A. Yes. I had an overbite and a wide gap between my two front teeth. They show in photos from back then. Pretty severe. Of course, I didn’t smile in most pictures. I had nothing much to smile about, with all the fighting.

  THE COURT: Sustained.

  MS. BLAYLOCK: Your Honor, I had no objection to the question. Is Your Honor—?

  MR. CRANSTON: I was about to move to strike the commentary.

  THE COURT: I just said sustained, counsel. Move on.

  MR. CRANSTON: Just for clarification, Your Honor, did you sustain your own objection to the question or did you strike the witness’ commentary?

  THE COURT: Move on, counsel. Don’t try my patience.

  By Mr. Cranston:

  Q. You needed to have your teeth straightened, did you not, Ms. Sullinger?

  A. As I just told you, yes, sir. If I wanted to meet the standards of beauty in America.

  Q. Who paid for your braces?

  A. My parents.

  Q. It was your mother who paid for your braces, wasn’t it?

  A. Respectfully, it was my parents, Mr. Cranston.

  Q. Well, your mother was working and your father wasn’t.

  A. I don’t remember my dad’s job situation at the time. But it doesn’t matter. I learned in a prelaw class that we live in a community-property state. Really, I knew that when I was probably nine years old. So my parents paid for my braces.

  Q. Your mother didn’t begrudge you the braces you needed?

  A. No, she wanted me to have straight teeth. My looks were very important to her, which was why she was always shaming me for being fat.

  Q. This was all paid for with income earned from her job as a real estate broker, correct?

  A. Yes.

  Q. And she also sent you to an expensive private school using money from her job as a real estate broker?

  A. She did.

  Q. Made sure you had nice clothes, good food, stayed healthy?

  A. M
y dad made sure I stayed healthy, by making sure my mother didn’t kill me.

  MR. CRANSTON: Move to … No, withdraw that.

  By Mr. Cranston:

  Q. Did you go to school with a girl named Rachel Ruskin?

  A. Yeah, like, Rachel was a school friend.

  Q. I thought you testified earlier that you didn’t have any friends.

  A. I think I said true friends, sir.

  Q. But you confided in Rachel Ruskin as if she was a true friend?

  A. Not about my mother’s abuse of me, my dad, and my brother.

  Q. Didn’t you tell a school classmate of yours named Rachel Ruskin that you wished your mother were dead, because you were in love with your father?

  A. I never … I might’ve told Rachel that I loved

  my … She and her mother had this—

  Q. You used the words “in love,” didn’t you? Said if he weren’t your father—

  MS. BLAYLOCK: Objection, Your Honor. Totally inappropriate and violates the court’s order on a motion in limine.

  MR. CRANSTON: The court’s order only applies to the psychologist’s—

  MS. BLAYLOCK: I want a sidebar, Your Honor.

  THE COURT: Before we—

  MR. CRANSTON: We don’t need a—

  MS. BLAYLOCK: A sidebar. I insist that we—

  THE COURT: Step back, Ms. Blaylock. Get out of the well.

  MS. BLAYLOCK: I will not step—

  MR. CRANSTON: Counsel’s contemptuous—

  [hat belongs to you. We’ll finally le]

  THE REPORTER: Please. I can’t transcribe everybody talking at once.

  THE COURT: The objection is sustained. Mr. Cranston, you shall drop this line of questioning. The jury wasn’t supposed to hear this scandalous charge. You will—

  MS. BLAYLOCK: Judge, with all due respect, your comment just now—

  THE COURT: If you pursue this line of questioning again, I will sanction you, perhaps hold you in contempt. Members of the jury, Mr. Cranston has violated a court order. You are to disregard his questions and the witness’ answers on this topic, and the supposed statement made to her classmate.

  MS. BLAYLOCK: May we approach, Your Honor?

  THE COURT: No, you may not.

  MR. CRANSTON: I’d also request that we approach or take a—

  THE COURT: Step back, counsel. Just all of you step back. Why won’t everyone step back?

  JUROR NO. 6

  THE ARCHITECT

  When the Foreperson suggests we talk about Lacey Sullinger, the Housewife thrusts her hand up in the air like those incredibly annoying, show-offy smart kids no one could stand in elementary school—or at any grade level, for that matter. She must’ve been a pain in the ass in her college seminars. No doubt she racked up the participation points.

  I didn’t see this side of her. When we met in the jury selection room a couple of hours before we were called down to Judge Quinn-Gilbert’s courtroom, she seemed like a listener. I hate people who monopolize a conversation. She didn’t do that when only the two of us were talking. I wish I could tell her that with her incessant arguing, she’s fucking up, but we’ve been trapped in here all afternoon. I doubt I’ll get the chance after we leave today. She’s going to run home to those kids and that husband of hers.

  I liked her because she was outgoing and because we were fellow prisoners trapped together in that musty central juror room. I have little in common with her, but I had nothing in common with those other people in there, or even these people in here. Am I supposed to hang with the Student? Nope. She’s a kid, not to mention our different backgrounds. The Grandmother or the Foreperson? Give me a break. I tried to buddy up to the Jury Consultant. She and I have the most in common—we’re both style-conscious, fortyish, divorced professional women, both attractive enough. But she’s kind of aloof and is always working during breaks. Lucky her. My practice is slow, though the economy is better. How many public buildings can you construct in this underpopulated county? I’d love to leave and get a job in a larger city, find more interesting work, but you need connections. I don’t have connections. Stayed in this goddamned place too long bumping my head against the glass ceiling, all the wounds self-inflicted.

  Anyhow, the Housewife and I started hanging out, and she was such a good listener, wanted to hear about my life, my work, my men, and she revealed that her husband, Jared is his name, hasn’t wanted to fuck her since their second kid was born—why after the second kid she didn’t say, but I’d guess it’s her weight—and I told her that I don’t have any trouble getting fucked by different guys and occasionally—very occasionally—some girls. My ex-husband bored me. (In hindsight, I bored him, too, but he never said it, never acted on it as far as I know, which was mean of him. There’s something mean-spirited about being the good guy in a marriage.) She was titillated, even curious, but she’s not my type, because her weight is an issue for me, too. Aside from my sex life, she was interested in my job, complimentary, treated me like an artist, as if my kind of architecture is art. I let my guard down and showed her a couple of my paintings, riverscapes. She complimented them, effused over them, and said she has a friend who manages a gallery across town and she’d put in a word for me. I exhibited in a gallery once, rented space, and even my friends wouldn’t buy a painting. Anyway, she showed me photos of her kids, as if they were her works of art—why do people do that?—and I effused in return, told her that the photos of her kids depict way more beautiful art than I’ve ever produced. It was the right thing to say, and those kids really are precious, especially the little three-year-old, who looks just like his mother. But children are not art, and deep down inside, she knows that, and it’s killing her.

  My ex-husband, Ernesto, is an architect, too, but he designs homes, has won some awards, has had his work appear in Architectural Digest. Unlike me, he loves his work. He never wanted to live in Sepulveda County but came here because this is where my job was. I resented him because he couldn’t get me a job in a larger city, as if that were on him rather than on me. I resented him because he’s more talented than I. I resented him because he demanded that we have kids. No, it was a plea, because he never demanded anything. I wish he had. Maybe if he’d demanded … It happened mostly with strangers on business trips—usually hot and a few times kinky, like with that couple I met at the public-building-design conference in New Orleans. I told the Housewife about that, and she was titillated, mesmerized. Amazing what intimate conversations you can have in a booth at a crowded Subway.

  I blamed my ex for my guilt and then felt guilty about that. I told myself he knew, because how could he not? That assuaged some of my guilt, because I could brand him a fool, and a fool deserves what he gets, right? No, I didn’t get caught. My resentment for him boiled over, and I blurted the truth out in frustration one day because I couldn’t stand listening to him babble on about what a great mother I’d make. I couldn’t stand lying to him anymore, didn’t mean to hurt him. He’s such a nice guy.

  “I’m suffering, too, if that’s any consolation,” I said as he was packing his things, and, looking back, I marvel that I was so matter-of-fact about the whole thing. “The guilt’s killing me.”

  “Your guilt isn’t punishment,” he replied. “It’s your ticket for doing whatever the hell you please, no matter who it hurts.” Those were the last words he spoke to me until the divorce mediation.

  He has another wife now, his real wife, and they have a two-year-old son. They live in the San Diego area. Who would’ve thought that David Sullinger would remind me of him? Or does Amanda remind me of me?

  Now that we’re deliberating, the Housewife can’t stop talking, isn’t really listening, and I wonder whether I was just lowbrow entertainment for her and she’s found a new way to amuse herself.

  “As I said before, Lacey was the key witness,” the Housewife says. “Entirely credible. So comp
osed on the stand. If you believe her testimony about how David was a battered husband, we don’t need to worry about the quality of David’s testimony. There’s reasonable doubt, so we should acquit.”

  “I echo that,” I say, because she’s right.

  “Me, too,” the Express Messenger and the Foreperson say in unison.

  “I feel like Lacey was believable,” the Student says. “Totally.”

  “As do I,” the Grandmother says.

  “She was a very effective witness,” the Jury Consultant says.

  We all look at the Clergyman. He stares straight ahead, then lifts his eyes to the ceiling.

  “I’m in agreement about the quality of Lacey’s testimony,” he says. How can he whisper and speak loudly at the same time?

  “Does this mean what I think it means?” the Foreperson says.

  The room goes quiet.

  There’s a knock at the door, and I’m not the only juror who flinches. The bailiff pokes his head in and says, “It’s five-fifteen. Time to send you all home.”

  “Ten more minutes?” the Foreperson says. “We’re—”

  “I’m afraid not,” the bailiff says. “The judge has left for the day. You can’t deliberate when she’s not here. Go home; get a good night’s sleep. Meet me outside of the courtroom. Nine tomorrow morning. Have a good evening, everyone.”