We, the Jury

by Robert Rotstein

  Jenna fashions a sultry smile, a sexy turn, a come-hither wave of her right arm, and says, “Well, come to the bed and maybe you’ll get a closer look.”

  I accept the invitation, although I don’t always, lately. I still love Jenna, despite everything. As we move in a familiar sexual choreography typical of long-married couples—every step of the dance is practiced, unsurprising, yet comforting—I try to force out the insidious thoughts: Jenna isn’t making love but, rather, engaging in a victory fuck; she’s been sleeping with wealthier, more powerful, more attractive men; why do we have sex only when she’s been drinking?

  Finally, an intrusive echo of David Sullinger’s last answer on redirect:

  Jenna: David, as you sit here today, how do you feel about your wife?

  David: I still love Amanda, despite everything.

  THE BAILIFF

  BRADLEY KOBASHIGAWA

  “Showtime, Kobash.”

  These mumbled words rouse me from sleep. What’s majorly weird is that the cheesy announcement comes from my own lips. It happens a lot. Weird. Majorly weird.

  Am I sleepwalking? Am I awake when I say these words? Maybe it happens in that sliver of existence between awake and sleeping. That’s the one time when you can control your dreams. Whichever, the words are a great internal clock and calendar. They don’t wake me on weekends, holidays, or vacations.

  I haven’t told anyone about my special talent. Not my son or ex-wife. Not the police-force shrinks they made me visit after the incident. No way them.

  Once, when I patrolled the streets for the sheriff’s department, I was one of the good guys. I loved being one of the good guys. Not because people looked up to me, which they did. But because I was doing good, and when you’re doing good, life has a rhythm. I had a musical life back then. Each day was a kind of concert, and while I was never the lead singer, I was in the band. That’s how I looked at it.

  Show time, Kobash!

  Then I was no longer one of the good guys.

  I look at the clock. Yep, five-fifteen. My internal ring announcer came through again. Why does the early-morning weirdness continue to torture me?

  I get out of the bed, take a shower, and tie my tie in a Windsor knot. When I turned twelve, my father insisted I learn how to tie a necktie three ways: Windsor, reverse Windsor, double Windsor. The mark of a cultured man, he said. The mark of a man who society takes serious. He was so disappointed when I became a cop. He didn’t come out and say it; that wasn’t his way. What he said was, “You’ll only need to tie one kind of knot for that job.”

  I get in my car and drive to the coffeehouse for a latte and an orange-ginger scone. A perfect breakfast on a cold day. My ex-wife hated that I wasted money on such minor extravagances. She ended up hating most things about me. Of course, that was after my fall from grace.

  I arrive at the courthouse a little before six-thirty. I take the elevator to the sixth floor, where the deputies assigned to courthouse duty share a tiny office. The other bailiffs are either rookies paying their dues in anticipation of promotion to more exciting jobs, or has-beens like me. I nod a hello to the others, who give not-so-friendly nods back. They can’t afford to be friendly where I’m concerned. I get my sidearm and my keys and go down to the courtroom. As usual, I’m the first one to arrive. I go into the jury deliberation room and turn on the light.

  Oh, my God. The night crew hasn’t cleaned the room. The jurors shouldn’t be subjected to unsanitary conditions, especially on the first full day of deliberations. I gather up Styrofoam coffee cups, mostly in the place where the Foreperson sits. Then I go back to chambers. The judge is sitting in her office, signing orders.

  “Good morning, Bradley,” she says. “I have the cupcakes for the jurors. Jonathan and I baked them.”

  “You mean you and Mick, Judge?” Why did those words come out? Not because it’s early. I’m a morning person.

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  “Maybe I—”

  “That’s what I said. Mick and I.”

  “I must’ve misheard you, Judge.”

  “Yes. You did,” she snaps. “People seem to be mishearing me right and left these days. Listen more carefully.” Judge Quinn-Gilbert can get like this. She’s a nice person, but she’s also a judge.

  I stand at attention. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She lets go of her pen. It’s not good when she lets go of her pen. “How many times have I told you not to call me ‘ma’am’? It’s ‘Judge’ or ‘Judge Quinn-Gilbert.’”

  “Yes, Judge. I’ll take care of those cupcakes.”

  The truth is, she’s never, ever told me not to call her ma’am.

  THE COURTROOM CLERK

  MICK REDMOND

  The judge and Mick’s ingredients for maple-bacon cupcakes:

  12 bacon strips

  1 stick of butter (8 oz.)

  1 teaspoon pure leaf lard (Durham’s preferred) or use the bacon fat, cooled and congealed

  2 eggs

  6 tablespoons pure maple

  syrup (Vermont preferred)

  2 tablespoons brown sugar

  1½ cups all-purpose flour (sifted)

  1½ teaspoons baking soda

  1 tablespoon vanilla extract

  Jonathan would give the judge such a hard time about putting bacon in the jury’s cupcakes.

  “Insensitivity to the religious dietary laws of minorities,” he’d say in that rich voice that drew you to him despite the substance of the words. The fact that we’d always bake other kinds of cupcakes sans bacon so that the jurors would have a choice didn’t discourage him from making such remarks. Sometimes, he would even level the criticism while scarfing down a maple-bacon cupcake he had stolen while Natalie wasn’t looking. Jonathan Gilbert was one of the few people whose smart-ass remarks could truly be endearing. Smirking, she’d tell him to mind his own business. Then she would order him out of the kitchen. Yet I always felt that for some reason, this light, affectionate banter stung her. Only after Jonathan died did I realize why. Three weeks after the funeral, at the end of a particularly grueling day in court, the judge called me into chambers and confided that Jonathan had put a clause in his will providing that he was to be buried in the county’s only Jewish cemetery and that she can’t be laid to rest next to him. Oh, she can be buried in the cemetery, she said—the operators are Reform Jews—but only in an area reserved for interfaith couples, and that isn’t where Jonathan’s mortal remains remain. Apparently, Jonathan’s asshole of a father had objected to the marriage because the judge is a gentile. As a quid pro quo for his father’s agreement to accept the marriage, Jonathan promised to be buried, when the time came, in the family plot in the county’s only Jewish cemetery.

  “At least, my father-in-law has never called me a shiksa,” the judge said. “Well, that I know of.”

  So-the-fuck-what that he didn’t call you a shiksa? I wanted to reply, but I didn’t, because this was just another example of Judge Quinn-Gilbert’s capacity to forgive, and I admire that.

  My face must have registered anger, because she said, “I don’t blame Jonathan. I truly believe he was going to fix it after his father passed. Who could have known he would die so young, especially since his parents lived so long?” She shrugged.

  Jonathan Gilbert’s father has outlived him. The loathsome old man is ninety-six, lucid, and heartbroken. Jonathan’s mother passed away four years ago at ninety-one. I suppose Jonathan thought he had longevity on his side. The moral of the story: careful when you wager on genetics, because sometimes a thoroughbred breaks down in the blink of an eye.

  As executor of Jonathan’s will, the judge could have ignored the stipulation about the place of his burial. I checked with one of my fellow clerks. She works in the probate department, and she says testamentary provisions like that are nonbinding. Hortatory, the lawyers call it. But the judge fol
lowed the terms of the will because she didn’t want to disrespect Jonathan’s wishes. She’s no religious zealot, my boss, but she’s a romantic who, despite her education, high intellect, and rational judicial mind, can be superstitious. She doesn’t let rocking chairs rock without someone seated in them, because an empty rocking chair that rocks means someone will die; she throws spilt salt over her left shoulder; she holds her breath and makes a wish while driving through a tunnel. She believes that if she and Jonathan aren’t buried together, they won’t find each other in the afterlife. Why would she sacrifice her eternal future for principle? Because she’s a lawyer and a judge, damn it. Lawyers live to follow the rules, and judges exist to enforce them. So sad that she couldn’t break a rule just this once.

  JUROR NO. 43

  THE CLERGYMAN

  The judge and her clerk baked cupcakes for us jurors. Although I should not consume sugar because of my type 2 diabetes, or bacon because of my high cholesterol, I must note that the two pastries I ate were scrumptious. The cakes were fluffy and pure, and the bacon cooked to perfection, neither overly crisp nor fatty-rare.

  The jurors appear in good spirits this morning. All except the Foreperson, that is. Presumably, we will vote for an acquittal based on Lacey Sullinger’s testimony and then adjourn. I suspect the Foreperson will miss the excitement. I am ready for this to end. An end will ease the burden, although it will not lift it entirely.

  The Foreperson pours herself a second cup of coffee, which smells orders of magnitude better than it did yesterday. It is still courthouse coffee, however. The Foreperson seems to have forgotten to bring in her own brew.

  “I guess we should get started,” the Foreperson says, her voice shaky, her tone funereal.

  If I sounded so morose at funerals, I would never again be asked to officiate.

  “There’s …” She inhales deeply and turns splotchy pink from the neck up, as if she’s had a severe allergic reaction to a fruit berry. She reaches into her purse and takes out some sort of document, then looks directly at me.

  “I found this picture on the internet last night,” she says, the words shooting out with the cadence of bullets fired from an automatic weapon. “I think that’s you. Isn’t that a picture of you with Amanda Sullinger at some charity event for your church, or something? I’m raising it because I wanted to give you a chance to explain. That’s my job as foreperson, right? Or should we just tell the judge, or the bailiff … or …?” She looks up and down the table for help.

  “Holy shit, my mom was right!” the Express Messenger says.

  The Foreperson stares at him in confusion.

  “Surfing the net about the trial,” he says. “It’s a sucky thing to do.”

  “I was not!” the Foreperson says. “I was looking up stuff about us, since I know our names. The public doesn’t know our names, so there’s nothing in the stuff about the trial. I was just curious, since … I would never break the judge’s rules.”

  The Housewife whispers something to the Architect, who nods her head and smirks. The Grandmother and the Jury Consultant sit up stiffly in their chairs. The Student regards me morosely. So there it is. My secret discovered. Seven heads turn in my direction, Torquemadas all, and for the briefest of moments I know how David Sullinger feels.

  I rise from my chair and stand to my considerable height, walk around the table toward the Foreperson, who cowers slightly, and pick up the photograph. I make a show of studying it, return it to the table, and use my hand to iron out any creases. In my best Southern-TV-evangelist, thou-hast-wronged-me-sinner voice, I say, “If you are implying that I withheld information from the judge, I resent the defamation of character. I know nothing about that photograph except that it appears to have been taken at a fund-raiser, not for my church but for Amnesty International. I was one of the honorees for my good works. There were several hundred people at that event, including many from Sepulveda County. A candid photograph was obviously taken of Amanda Sullinger standing next to me. Along with three other individuals.”

  I return to my place, sit down, and cross my arms, my eyes locked on my accuser. I am a good liar.

  As I suspected would happen, the Foreperson has turned beet red. “I … I still think maybe we should tell the judge,” she says, barely audible from across the room.

  “I don’t think we need to go to the judge with this,” the Jury Consultant says. “There’s a rational explanation. The voir dire question was whether any of us knew Amanda. He doesn’t.”

  “I agree,” the Housewife says. Addressing the Foreperson, she says, “I don’t think you should worry about what other jurors do. You looked at the internet, and we’re not supposed to look at the internet.”

  Fascinating. I took the Housewife for a stringent moralist who would line up against me. Not so. She knows we are about to vote her way and acquit David Sullinger, and she does not want to do anything that could change that outcome. The prospect of imminent victory causes many to shunt morality to the side. That is exactly what should happen, morally—I should have to answer to the judge.

  The Foreperson looks to be on the verge of tears. “I was only … I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I shut my eyes, attempting to mask the discomfort from the all-too-rapid heartbeat which threatens to send me into atrial fibrillation.

  The Foreperson puffs herself up like some kind of albino land fish. “Anyway, when we left off yesterday, we were all in agreement and were going to vote. So I think we can vote now.”

  “I’m not ready to vote,” the Jury Consultant says. “There’s more to talk about.”

  “What more is there to talk about?” the Housewife says. “We all agree Lacey was a believable witness. You said so yourself.”

  “Excuse me, but I didn’t say Lacey was a believable witness,” the Jury Consultant says. “I said she was an effective witness. Not the same thing as credible. The judge instructed us to rely on life experiences in coming to our decision, and I can’t help doing that. I make my living teaching people how to be effective witnesses in front of juries, and Lacey was too effective. Especially for a twenty-year-old.”

  “You want to penalize Lacey for being too good a witness?” the Housewife asks.

  “I don’t want to penalize anyone,” the Jury Consultant says. “I just want us to reach a just verdict.”

  “Let’s hear her out,” the Foreperson says. “We haven’t been going at this very long.”

  I am intrigued. I found Lacey to be a truth teller. I am a good judge of truth tellers. It takes a liar to know one.

  “Here’s what I observed,” the Jury Consultant says. “Lacey was always leaning slightly forward while testifying, which is the very first thing we jury consultants train a witness to do. That posture helps a witness appear earnest and engaged—and truthful. Normally, a witness who’s on the stand as long as she was will get tired and lean back or slouch, but she never did that, even after an entire day on the stand.”

  “Now, that’s a stinging indictment,” the Housewife says. “Prevarication by dint of posture—is that what you expert jury gurus would call it?”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm,” the Grandmother says. “As Madame Foreperson pointed out, we really haven’t been at this very long.”

  “Speak for yourself,” the Architect snaps. She is grouchy this morning. Even more so than usual. I have noticed over the course of these weeks that the Architect is not what one would call a morning person.

  The Grandmother glares at her.

  “Lacey’s posture is no biggie in and of itself,” the Jury Consultant says. “But did you also notice that she’d always look at the questioner and never at us? We drum that technique into witnesses—look at the questioner. Except when you’re giving a long answer or making an important point. Lacey followed that rule without fail. Another thing—when Lacey made eye contact with each of us, she’d start with Madam
e Foreperson and move down the line in strict numerical order. Truthful testimony isn’t mathematical like that.”

  She is correct, our Jury Consultant. The edges of truth are jagged, not linear.

  “I understand your point,” the Grandmother says.

  “I don’t,” the Architect says. “Another two minutes for Lacey in the penalty box for appearing truthful.”

  “I taught many students in my time,” the Grandmother says. “Young people Lacey’s age are rarely so poised when speaking to a group, even under the best of circumstances. Still, that doesn’t mean I believe she was lying. On the contrary. I still find her credible.”

  “You taught high school kids,” the Housewife says. “Lacey is in college.”

  The Grandmother turns to the Student. “You and Lacey are about the same age. What do you think?”

  “I still feel like she was believable,” the Student says. “But …”

  We wait respectfully. The poor young woman is so nervous. Obviously equivocating. This is indeed an interesting and surprising development, this crack in Lacey Sullinger’s seemingly impregnable armor of credibility. Interesting, surprising, and most distressing.

  “Go ahead, honey,” the Grandmother says, patting the Student’s arm.

  The Student inhales deeply. “It’s just that, honestly, I mean, if my dad killed my mom, self-defense or not, and I had to testify in court …” She hugged herself. “Oh, my God, I wouldn’t have been so calm and logical, and neither would any of my friends. I know people who’ve seen a lot of gang violence growing up; violence was part of their lives, and I doubt they’d testify as calmly as Lacey did. I mean, she was kind of mechanical, when you think about it.”