We, the Jury

by Robert Rotstein

  The Foreperson’s cheeks get splotchy, and she starts to say something, then looks at me, as do the other jurors. I slide over and whisper in her ear, “The stuff about the time he protected his mother, the tuna casserole stuff, and the nine-one-one call.”

  “The stuff about the time he protected his mother, the tuna casserole stuff, and the nine-one-one call,” the Foreperson says.

  “Can you find that, Christina?” the judge asks the court reporter.

  “It’ll take a moment, Your Honor.” The court reporter inputs something into her computer and then types some more. She’s a hot chick. She’s wearing jeans now—I guess she didn’t expect to come to court—but sometimes when she wore a skirt or a dress to court during the trial, it was hard not to steal looks at her legs, especially when the hem creeped up. She’s got that court-reporting machine between her legs, and I couldn’t help wondering about her … Then I’d think of my mom and what she’d say about me sleazing it up in court, and I’d look away from the court reporter’s legs and pay attention again. Maybe I’ll run into Christina someday, out shopping or at one of the two movie theaters. I’ve always liked the name Christina. I wonder if her friends and family call her Tina or Chrissie or Chris. I wonder if she has a boyfriend.

  “Ready, Your Honor,” Christina says.

  “Proceed, Ms. Kelleher.”

  Christina straightens up in her chair and leans forward. “Reading from the transcript of the direct examination by Mr. Cranston:

  Question: Dillon, did you ever see your mother strike your father?

  Answer: Yeah, in self-defense when he was trying to beat the shit out of her.

  Question: Can you give us an example?

  Answer: Yeah, there was this one time when I was in middle school, and I got an F on a social studies test. I didn’t know the state capitals. Who gives a crap about the state capitals? Anyway, my mom started screaming at me, said I was a fuckup, said if I didn’t shape up I was going to end up a loser like my father.

  Question: Your mother said that to you?

  Answer: Yep.

  Question: That wasn’t very nice.

  Answer: Like I said before, my mother could be a bitch sometimes. No denying that. I have a fucked-up family. It didn’t mean she hit my father. It was the other way around.

  Question: What happened on this occasion … or on the occasion … uh, that occasion?

  Answer: My father was sitting at the table drinking Scotch or gin or whatever he drinks. He screamed out, ‘I’m sick of this bullshit.’ He stood up so hard, he knocked his glass off the kitchen table and broke it. Then he walked over and hit my mother in the arm.

  Question: With a closed fist?

  Answer: I think … I think it was open, but he hit her with, what do you call it …? [Witness gestures]

  Question: The heel of his hand?

  Answer: Yeah. The heel of his hand. Hard. My mother yelped like a hurt dog.

  Question: What did your mother do next?

  Answer: She told my father to get the fuck out, that he needed psychiatric help.

  Question: In a loud voice?

  Answer: In a tough voice. My mother was tough. Also scared.

  Question: What happened next?

  Answer: My father grabbed my mother by her blouse and started lifting her off the ground. She was wearing one of her work blouses, buttoned up to her neck, and he was choking her. She was gasping for air, and her eyes were bugging out, you know, like in one of those horror movies, but it was real. Like, swinging, but not swinging …

  Question: Flailing?”

  Christina stops reading testimony—kind of a shock, because there’s a rhythm to her reading, and it’s been broken. She hesitates, then looks up at the judge and says, “Your Honor, then there was an objection that was overruled.”

  “Go ahead with the next answer, Ms. Kelleher,” the judge says.

  Christina nods and says, “The witness answered, ‘So, I went over to my father and shoved him. The good thing was, he let go of my mother. The bad thing was, the dickwad hit me in the stomach really hard.

  Question: Were you in pain?

  Answer: Damn straight I was in pain. I was only fourteen. But when my father turned back to my mother, I picked up a knife and told him to get away from her. And he did it, just left the house and took off in his car. Fucking coward, hitting a woman then running away when I challenge him. After that, he never fucked with me again.

  Question: What happened next?

  Answer: My mother came over and hugged me. She started crying. It was freaky, because my mother wasn’t a crier and wasn’t a hugger, but this time she did.

  Question: Was your sister, Lacey, present when this occurred?

  Answer: Yeah.

  Question: What was she doing?

  Answer: What she always did when my dad was abusing my mom—smiling or laughing or just sitting there like nothing happened. Then freaking out and screaming at me when I protected my mother.

  Question: Are you aware that Lacey testified that your father never struck your mother or you or her?

  Answer: That’s what Lacey tells everyone. She was the only one who didn’t get hit.

  Question: Do you believe Lacey is a liar?

  Answer: Lacey is a fucking liar. She’ll do anything to protect my father.

  Question: Why?”

  “Then another objection by Ms. Blaylock was overruled, and the witness answered, ‘Because Lacey and my father have this perverted—’”

  Christina takes a deep breath and looks at the judge. “Your Honor, at that point, the court stopped the witness from answering. And, I believe, that ends the first segment of testimony that was requested by the jury.”

  The courtroom stays quiet. Jenna Blaylock is thumbing through a loose-leaf binder like she couldn’t care less about what the court reporter read. I think she cares about Dillon’s testimony. I’ve never felt that before. Meanwhile, Assistant DA Cranston is sitting straight up, trying to look dignified, which the man cannot do.

  Wow. When Dillon Sullinger testified in real time, I didn’t believe him for a second. What a sleaze the kid was. Is. I think he was stoned on the stand. And then, on cross, Blaylock crucified him, just crucified him. Got him to admit that he’d washed out of his first private school after getting busted for possession of marijuana with intent to sell. Only Amanda’s money and connections kept him out of juvie and got him into a drug diversion program. He’d gone back to rehab twice more after that. Blaylock also got Dillon to admit he was shitcanned (Dillon’s word, not mine) from another private school for writing over and over on his American history exam, “I’m stoned on ’shrooms, I’m taking this test on ’shrooms.” No, Dillon had no credibility with me, with any of the other jurors except the Jury Consultant. But now, when the words came out of the court reporter’s mouth, they seemed credible, even though the court reporter sounds like a robot.

  So Dillon seems like a better witness when you just listen to the robotic words. Does that matter? I don’t know. We’re supposed to consider not only the witness’ words but also his demeanor and reputation. But his testimony is so detailed. Where does that leave us?

  “Reading the next requested passage,” Christina says. “For the record, Your Honor, this was during the prosecution’s rebuttal on February seventh.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Kelleher,” the judge says.

  “Question: Are you aware that your sister, Lacey, testified about an incident involving a tuna casserole?

  Answer: Yeah, I heard about that. I wasn’t in court, because the judge said witnesses can’t be, but … Anyhow, more Lacey bullshit.

  The Court: Dillon, I’ve tolerated your profane language during previous appearances on the witness stand. That was my mistake, in hindsight. Watch your language this time, or there will be consequences.”

 
; Answer: Yeah, okay. Sorry, Judge.

  The Court: Is there something funny about my admonition, Mr. Sullinger?”

  At this point, Cranston stands up, interrupts Christina, who stops reading, and says, “Your Honor, the People object to the court reporter reading the colloquy between the court and the witness. It’s not evidence.”

  “That objection is sustained,” the judge says. “Ms. Kelleher, please just read the questions and answers and not colloquy between the court and counsel.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” Christina says, blushing.

  “It is I who was asleep at the wheel,” the judge says. “Please proceed.”

  Christina raises her arms and stretches and then looks back down at her screen.

  Question: Did your mother get upset at your father or you kids for calling the dish tuna casserole rather than tuna à la king?

  Answer: Nope, never. I never even heard the à la king shit until the lawyer that works with you, Alicia, told me that my father testified about à la king. He must’ve gotten that word from the internet. He didn’t get it from my mom.

  Question: Did your mother ever throw a hot bowl of tuna at your father and burn him?

  Answer: Nope.

  Question: Did your father ever go to the emergency room with a burned face?

  Answer: Yeah, because he was drunk, got down on the floor to look for something in the bottom drawer under the stove, and tipped the pot over on his face.

  Question: Did your sister and your mother ever have a confrontation over a tuna casserole?

  Answer: Only when my sister one time ordered it in a restaurant we went to and my mom got upset because Lacey was getting fat. I told you, my mom could be mean. But nothing like Lacey says.”

  Christina pauses and types something into her keyboard. “Your Honor, I believe that ends the second segment of testimony that was requested,” she says. “The third was the nine-one-one call. Should I read the transcript of that recording, or—?”

  “No, that’s not necessary, Ms. Kelleher,” Judge Quinn-Gilbert says. “We’ll play the recording itself again for the jury. Mr. Redmond, are you ready?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” the court clerk says. He punches a button on his computer, and the courtroom sound system powers on.

  Dispatch: Nine-one-one emergency.

  Dillon: I need an ambulance … I … I need the cops to come to my house, and the paramedics, or … I need the fucking cops.

  Dispatch: Calm down. What’s your name?

  Dillon: Dillon Sullinger.

  Dispatch: Pardon?

  Dillon: Dillon! I’m Dillon! I need an ambulance, damn it! I need the police. My dad killed … I think my father killed my mom. The asshole … I think she’s dead. Her head is split … and all the blood. Please send an ambulance, damn it!

  Dispatch: Is your father there now?

  Dillon: Yeah. He has an ax and a knife.

  Dispatch: Is he there now? Are you in danger?

  Dillon: I don’t … No. He’s just sitting there in the kitchen, crying. Right where she is. Oh, my God, there’s so much blood, and she’s not moving, and her eyes are open. Does that mean she’s dead? I think she’s dead. Please. Please, send an ambulance.”

  Dispatch: The other dispatcher is dispatching the police and the paramedics to where you’re at right now.

  Dillon: We live at five—

  Dispatch: We already have your address, okay?

  Dillon: Okay.

  Dispatch: Okay, stay on the line with me and don’t go near your father. Help will be there soon.

  Dillon: Okay. Okay. Okay.

  After that, all you could hear was Dillon whimpering until the authorities arrived at his house.

  We heard the recording only once during the trial. It didn’t affect me so much then, but it does now. On the stand, Dillon sucked as a witness, but on the recording, he was a scared, vulnerable kid.

  I’m glad I asked for a replay of Dillon’s testimony and that recording. I wanted to hear Dillon once more, to be fair to him before we tore him apart in the jury room. Still, I don’t know what any of this proves. All I know is that the whole thing sucks.

  THE PARALEGAL

  SAUL MEADE

  After sitting through as many trials as I have, you learn that trying to divine the significance of a jury’s note has as much scientific validity as tasseography, but without the Jungian insights and meditative benefits that staring into a cup of tea brings. Nevertheless, you try to read the jury’s mind. Now, after the judge sent the jury back into the deliberation room, we sit at our usual booth in the Sepulveda River Grill, our hangout away from home, and deconstruct and reconstruct the jury’s note with an intense scrutiny worthy of a Marxist/Freudian critique of the later works of James Joyce.

  Jenna’s nonpartner-partner and associate maintain that the note is good for us because the jury simply wants to consider for a final time the prosecution’s best evidence, which isn’t very good.

  “They’ll be back with a defense verdict within the hour,” the nonpartner-partner says.

  “Ditto,” the associate says. “Maybe in a half hour. An hour at the most.”

  They truly believe this. Their true belief comes from the fact that this is the truth Jenna Blaylock wants to hear.

  “What do you think, Saul?” Jenna asks.

  I answer the way I’ve answered such pointless questions recently: with gratuitous cruelty. “I have no opinion. I’m just the paralegal.” Then I add a new gloss on this spiteful response. “Que será, será.”

  “Jesus, don’t fucking quote Doris Day to me,” Jenna says, taking a long swig of her second glass of Chardonnay. Yes, she’s drinking at lunch. No, she didn’t drink at lunch until recently. “Of course you have an opinion. And I know what it is. You think we’re losing. That they’re crediting that lying kid. Saul Meade, Mr. Glass-Three-Fourths-Empty. Mr. Passive-Aggressive.”

  Passive-aggression is defined as indirect resistance to the demands of others. I consider my behavior to reflect aggressive-passivity—indirectly assaulting Jenna emotionally when she’s made no demands on me. Is it my way of getting back at her because she’s outshone me? Because I’m no longer her unsung hero, the wind beneath her wings? Because she’s growing ever more self-centered with each passing month? Marital annoyance works both ways.

  Or maybe I’m being mean to Jenna because I thought that she gratuitously inflicted pain on Dillon Sullinger during her cross-examination of the kid, asking questions calculated to elicit foul language, cataloguing the boy’s academic and socialization problems, hammering home ad nauseam at his drug use. She even convinced the judge to admit into evidence a record of one of Dillon’s drug convictions that had been under seal and shouldn’t have come in. I doubt it’s a reversible error, but what do I know? I’m only a paralegal.

  “I’ve concluded no such thing,” I say. “And Doris Day was an unsung prophet of the 1950s and ’60s.”

  The nonpartner-partner and the associate both smile at this, which draws a piercing glance of rebuke from Jenna. I’m encouraged—they finally seem to have acquired an appreciation of Doris Day, an underrated talent.

  “We can debate the note from now until next autumn,” I say. “But the jury will return a verdict soon, and whatever we conclude about the note will be insignificant. So this is a pointless discussion.”

  “Here’s what’s not pointless,” Jenna says. “I expected the jury to be back this morning. Apparently, that’s not going to happen. I need to call the people in Boston and tell them I can’t make the fund-raiser.” She finishes her wine and leans toward me. “Since you’re the paralegal, please get on the phone and tell them I can’t make it. Extend my apologies.”

  “I’ll do it right after lunch,” I say.

  “No. You’ll do it right this second.”

  “Yes, Ms. Blaylock.
” I rise from my chair, pull out my cell phone, and walk out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk to make the call. The air is dry and crisp, the traffic sparse. Quiet for a town center at noon. Nice place, Sepulveda County. Green hills and a clear river. I wonder whether I could move here and escape.

  THE PROSECUTOR

  JACK CRANSTON

  “The jury asking that Dillon’s testimony be reread—a great sign, right?” I say.

  I look at Bauer, who shrugs.

  I look at Alicia, who shrugs.

  I look at Cole, who shrugs.

  “Shit,” I say.

  JUROR NO. 11

  THE STUDENT

  The bailiff takes us back into the jury room. While we were out, they brought in lunch: deli sandwiches, some gloppy coleslaw, gloppier potato salad, and soft drinks. I’m not a fan of cold cuts or carbonated drinks. I don’t eat beef, pork, or poultry—nothing that walks or flies. I hope I can get a tuna-fish sandwich. I know they have them—the room smells like tuna fish already.

  “Well, that was useful,” the Housewife says as soon as we sit down. She’s being sarcastic. She looks at the Jury Consultant. “Even if you don’t believe Lacey, how could you believe Dillon? You can’t believe them both, and he’s an obvious liar. Even with the court reporter reading the cold, hard transcript, he’s an obvious liar.”

  “I agree completely,” the Architect says. She and the Housewife are still a team, I guess.

  “I feel like that’s true,” I say. “Dillon has no respect for anything or anyone. I find his bad language really annoying. This trial is like a game to him.”

  “Sure, Dillon has his troubles,” the Jury Consultant says. “But he was actually more credible than his sister.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this argument,” the Housewife says, and then she snickers out loud. She’s been passionate up until now, but this time she was downright rude.

  “It’s not an argument; it’s a discussion,” the Grandmother says. “Let’s be respectful. We owe it to the defendant and the victim.”