Cover Story

by Brenda Buchanan

  Then there was the Speaker, recognizable to anyone in Maine who paid even the slightest attention to political news. Five foot ten and stocky, his full head of snow-white hair curled around his ears. The other member of the entourage was the beefy bodyguard who’d knocked me on my ass the previous afternoon. In the full light of day, I read him as a former cop.

  I stepped back out the door and angle-walked across the parking lot, intent on letting the Speaker know he’d intrigued rather than intimidated me. A gust of wind grabbed Tom’s hat off his head and sent it in my direction. I jogged a couple of steps to my right and snagged it. When I approached the clan with hat in hand, the doctor brother met me halfway.

  “That wind’s something,” he said as I held it out to him.

  “I’m Joe Gale from the Daily Chronicle. So sorry about your brother.” I offered my hand. “I’ll be here all week covering the trial. Glad I had a chance to say hello.”

  The Speaker turned and walked back toward his car. Patrick shot me a peeved look.

  “Jeez, can’t we even get in out of the cold before you start looking for blood?”

  Ignoring the comment, I smiled at Tom, nodded at his brothers, and resumed my walk across the parking lot in search of coffee.

  * * *

  A half hour later, fortified by sixteen ounces of excellent coffee purchased at a Main Street café-bookstore-art gallery called the Java Nook, I scanned the second-floor courtroom. The front half of the spectator section on the left side had been roped off to accommodate the jury pool, so I claimed the aisle seat in the front row on the right side. This would allow me a good vantage point to watch voir dire, the process by which prospective jurors are questioned about their backgrounds and potential biases.

  Large windows welcomed sunlight on both sides of the room, causing the benches to gleam like they were in a furniture polish commercial. The fourteen-chair box where the jurors would sit was beneath the windows, about thirty diagonal feet to my right. The witness stand was straight ahead, perhaps forty feet away.

  Other reporters take notes on laptops during court hearings, but it’s never made sense to me, at least not at a full-length trial. Most Maine courthouses don’t have a designated press table, so I’d have to juggle a computer on my lap and resist the urge to check email when I was supposed to be listening to testimony. Instead I do what court reporters have done for generations—sit on the front bench and use an old-fashioned notebook, then construct an actual story when the day’s testimony is complete.

  If I were tapping on my computer throughout the day I’d probably end up with more detail than perspective, and I’m a perspective kind of guy. I keep my phone at the ready so I can tweet if something major happens, but that’s as high-tech as I get inside a courtroom.

  * * *

  A pair of elderly women clad in matching camel hair coats and similar knit hats—one emerald green, the other bright purple—joined me on the front bench. I welcomed them with a polite nod and received identical smiles in return.

  “We knew we’d have to arrive early to get good seats,” the one in the purple hat said, her blue eyes sparkling. “I hope you don’t mind if we perch here next to you.”

  “I’ve always been a front row kind of person,” the one with the green hat said. “In school, at church, even at the movies. I don’t like to miss a trick.”

  They stood side-by-side and beamed at me, leaving no doubt that they were twins. “I’m Arlette Peabody,” the purple-hatted one said, extending a fine-boned hand that knew how to shake. “And I’m Trulette Peabody, her sister,” said the other one. Their slide out of the matching coats was almost synchronized. I guessed them to be in their late seventies, but they had that well-preserved look that could be deceptive.

  Once they had their hats off, I couldn’t tell who was who. I introduced myself and we chatted for a few minutes, one of them leaning forward on the bench in order to participate in the conversation. They’d lived around the corner from the courthouse all their lives, they told me, because their father had been an attorney with an office on Main Street and he liked to walk home for lunch. The one sitting next to me had worked for many years at his firm “doing whatever needed doing,” as she put it. The other had been the assistant to the president of the local bank. Now retired, they often sat in on trials.

  “It’s better than watching TV,” the former bank employee said, her smile as bright as a toothpaste model’s. “The best reality show around.”

  Trials involving people they knew were of particular interest, and this one fell into that category. They served on the finance committee at the Congregational Church with Danny Boothby’s mother-in-law, a fine woman who deserved their support.

  “Dolores didn’t ask us to come,” Peabody twin #1 said. “But we know it will be a comfort to her that we’re here.”

  They were delighted to hear I was a reporter, telling me they were inveterate newspaper readers.

  “On Sundays we buy the Bangor paper, the Portland paper and the New York Times,” twin #2 said. “We pretty much spend the entire morning reading about what’s happening in our little town and around the world. I don’t know what we’ll do if newspapers cease to exist, like people seem to be predicting.”

  “I’m not sure what I’ll do, either.” I hoped my smile didn’t come off as a grimace. “Being a reporter is the only real job I’ve ever had. It’s hard to imagine doing anything else. But it seems I may have to.”

  “Don’t worry.” Peabody twin #2 reached over to pat my arm. “You’ll just have to publish your stories on the World Wide Web.”

  Her sister nodded. “We’re old dogs who learned new tricks. We bought a computer a couple of years ago and paid one of the kids from church to hook it up. We’ve learned to surf the internet.” As she said this she held her arms out from her sides and wiggled her shoulders, like a geriatric Gidget.

  Other spectators had filtered in while we chatted. I swiveled around to get a look at the crowd. From their jeans and parkas, I guessed them to be locals. There didn’t seem to be any other reporters covering jury selection, at least none I recognized.

  A woman was bustling around the counsel table nearest the jury box, setting out notepads and pouring a glass of water from a glass pitcher. The O’Rourke brothers minus the Speaker entered the courtroom together without fanfare and sat on the left aisle behind the roped-off area. Patrick didn’t look at me, but Tom nodded hello.

  A wiry guy about my age, wearing a white dress shirt under a gray suit, appeared in a doorway at the front of the courtroom. He was carrying a big square litigation briefcase that sagged with the weight of its contents. He parked it on the other counsel table, walked back out through the same doorway and returned a minute later, lugging a banker’s box bulging with files. I was thinking he must be the defense attorney’s associate when the nearest Peabody sister leaned my way and identified him as Marcus Cohen, Boothby’s lawyer. Setting the box on the table, Cohen opened his briefcase and pulled out a patterned tie with a maroon background. Surveying the courtroom as he tied it around his neck, his eyes stopped for a beat on the O’Rourke brothers.

  Two deputy sheriffs brought the defendant into the courtroom through the same back door. Danny Boothby was a big man, six-two, maybe 225. He wore his dirty-blond hair in an inch-long buzz cut. Boothby was dressed in a stiff pair of khakis and a brown corduroy blazer. His skin was pale, his blue eyes watery and worried. He flashed a tentative smile at his lawyer and looked at the floor as one of the deputies removed his handcuffs. Then he turned and scanned the growing crowd of spectators before easing into the chair next to Cohen, where he faced front and hunched his big shoulders, causing the jacket to pull across his back.

  The door next to the bench swung open again and Geoff Mansfield walked in with Eddie O’Rourke. Mansfield was smiling and nodding at whatever the Speaker was muttering in his le
ft ear. They stopped near the prosecution table, and Mansfield introduced O’Rourke to his assistant, who motioned the Speaker toward the swinging door that allowed passage between the lawyers’ well and the spectator section. As he passed through the gate, the Speaker pretended not to notice me.

  I stood up and thrust my hand in his direction.

  “We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” I said. “When I was gathering information for yesterday’s story, I reached out to you. Left three messages at your office, but didn’t get a callback.”

  “That was deliberate.” The Speaker tried to brush past me, but I’d planted myself smack in the middle of the aisle.

  “I’d like to talk with you and your brothers. Can we set up a time to do that this week?”

  O’Rourke’s jaw tightened. “That wouldn’t be appropriate. We’re here to see justice done. I don’t want anything I say to be construed as trying to influence the outcome of the trial. None of us will be available for interviews until it’s over.”

  I weathered his intense stare for a moment before stepping aside. He walked away without another word.

  The court officer entered the front of the courtroom.

  “All rise. Court will come to order.”

  The Boothby trial had been specially assigned to Justice Madeline Herrick, a well-regarded former trial lawyer. Nominated to the Superior Court bench at fifty, she surprised many by taking what must have been a substantial pay cut to don a black robe. Silver streaks in her dark curls glinted in the light from the bench lamp as she settled in her chair. She greeted the courtroom and noted for the record the state had filed a pretrial motion related to the nature of the questions she would ask during individual voir dire.

  “There was a hearing on this motion in my chambers earlier this morning,” she said. “The record should reflect that the motion has been denied.”

  Justice Herrick signaled the court officer at the rear of the courtroom and moments later the benches on the left side of the courtroom were filled with potential jurors. As they were filing in, I made a note on the back page of my notebook to find out more about the pretrial motion.

  In a no-nonsense style that made it clear who was running the show, the judge explained the procedure to select the twelve regulars and two alternates who would sit in judgment of Danny Boothby. A decision had been made to sequester the jury, something that rarely happens in Maine these days. It meant each juror would have a television-less room at a local motel where they would stay for the duration, including the weekend if the trial ran into a second week.

  The judge began by asking questions of the whole group. Whenever someone raised a hand, she quizzed them further before deciding whether they should stay or go. After an hour or so, the pool was down to thirty-eight people. Saying there was more to come, the judge called a brief recess. Court officers escorted the potential jurors and Boothby out the back door before the rest of us were permitted to leave.

  Prosecutor Mansfield hustled out like a guy in desperate need of coffee, a bathroom, or both. I stood and stretched, catching Cohen’s eye when he turned in my direction. He edged over to the edge of the lawyer’s territory, the rail between us.

  “Hi. Joe Gale from the Daily Chronicle.”

  “Marcus Cohen.” He put his hand out but didn’t smile.

  “Sorry I didn’t have a chance to connect with you sooner. I realize this may not be the best time to talk about the case.”

  “It’s okay.” He kept his voice low, which made me wonder if the O’Rourke brothers were still sitting in the courtroom, watching me shake hands with the lawyer defending the man accused of killing their brother.

  “What was the pretrial motion about?”

  “Mansfield filed it late yesterday. He wanted the judge to question potential jurors about their political affiliation.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. To them, everything is about politics.”

  “They wanted a surefire way to know who the scoundrels are, eh?”

  “Something like that.” Cohen’s voice was a monotone, but his eyes were darting around the room.

  “What time do you think you’ll wrap up today?”

  “Hard to say. Maybe midafternoon.”

  “I’d like to hear more about your client and how you see the case unfolding, if there’s time.”

  That drew a surprised facial expression. “I can’t guarantee you any quotes, but you can stop by my office if you want. It’s on Elm, upstairs in the barn next to my house. There’s a sign out front. When I leave here, I’ll be heading right back there.”

  I went to look for the men’s room myself, leaving my parka on the bench to mark my space next to the Peabody sisters. As I walked down the center aisle I nodded at Patrick O’Rourke, who appeared to be holding the fort.

  The Speaker was at the far end of the hallway, talking into a cell phone. He ignored me, so I ignored him back. As I walked toward the men’s room I pulled out my own phone and texted Leah that I’d file a 750-word piece on jury selection by six thirty, and would tweet in the meantime if something interesting happened that could be summarized in 140 characters. On my way back to the courtroom, a short, stocky woman with a computer bag slung over her shoulder and a narrow reporter’s notebook in her hand careened around a corner.

  “Whoa, slow down,” I said as she bumped smack into me.

  “Oops! Sorry. I’m a klutz when I’m in a hurry.”

  “Reporter?” I gestured at her notebook.

  “Yeah, why do you care?”

  “Joe Gale, Daily Chronicle.” I stuck out my hand.

  “Oh. Hi. Andrea Veloute. Bangor Free Press.”

  She was perhaps twenty-five, maybe not quite. Five foot two and built like a jock. A softball catcher, maybe. Or a shot putter.

  “You cover a lot of trials?”

  “A fair number. Over the years.”

  “This is my first. I’m hoping it’ll get better. This jury selection stuff is a yawn. I’m taking off.”

  “Driving back to Bangor?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got to cover a Planning Board meeting tonight. That’s gotta be more interesting than this has been.”

  With that she headed for the door, leaving me to wonder why the venerable Bangor paper sent a rookie to cover such a big trial.

  The rest of the day was taken up with the judge quizzing the potential jurors, then Mansfield and Cohen took turns offering challenges for cause, knocking out everyone they claimed would bring a bias to the deliberation table. Then each lawyer exercised his five allotted peremptories, the need-no-reason strikes to eliminate the candidates who they intuited wouldn’t buy their respective theories of the case. Cohen struck people who were big fans of the CSI series on TV and didn’t read newspapers. Mansfield rejected two college-educated women and a middle-aged carpenter who balanced off his receding hairline with a ponytail.

  Slips of paper bearing the remaining jurors’ numbers were placed in a small wooden box, and the clerk extracted fourteen names at random—eight women and six men. Twelve were white and two were Native American. There was no indication which two jurors were the alternates, and unless a regular had to be excused during the trial, that was how it would remain. The idea was to let all fourteen think they were going to be in on the deliberations, so the alternates would pay as close attention as the others.

  While I was tweeting the news that a jury had been selected, Justice Herrick told its members what they could expect over the next week or so, and cautioned them to steer clear of discussion with anyone—even their fellow jurors—about the case.

  “The televisions and radios have been taken out of your motel rooms,” she said. “I’m sorry to tell you that you can’t have a laptop, tablet or cell phone. We’re not trying to punish you or bore you to death. It’s simply the rule whe
n you’re sequestered. One of the motel’s rooms has been turned into a lounge where you can go and watch a common TV. A deputy will be there to make sure you only watch channels that won’t carry news of this trial. So you can watch sports or game shows or movies. No news, not even the weather. You’ll be permitted to read the newspaper after any story relating to this trial has been cut out. You also will be allowed a brief phone call on a land line with your family twice a day but are forbidden to talk with them about any aspect of this case. Any questions?”

  No one had any, so at ten minutes till four she called it a day. Once the jury was gone, the court officers put the cuffs back on Danny Boothby, who searched the courtroom with solemn eyes as if seeking the balm of a familiar smile. He found one in my seatmates, who were easing into their matching camel hair coats. From my read of his expression, it seemed at least a few others also were offering encouraging looks.

  I bid the Peabody sisters good evening and followed the crowd of spectators down the stairs to the front door of the courthouse.

  “I don’t know what the hell to think,” a man who looked to be in his sixties said to a fortyish woman who resembled him. “I don’t see why Danny would have killed the guy, even if he was threatening to put Corrie in foster care.”

  “I guess we’ll see if it’s true or just a nightmare,” the younger woman replied, leaving no doubt they were on the Boothby side of the aisle.

  Halfway down the hall, a thirtyish woman winding a blue-and-green-striped scarf around her neck watched me tuck my narrow reporter’s notebook into my laptop bag. She was carrying a handbag the size of a small suitcase, so I assumed she was press but when I went over to introduce myself she turned out to be a DHHS caseworker who’d just finished testifying at a hearing in District Court. She scoffed when I asked if she planned to watch the trial of the man accused of killing her colleague.

  “Who’d make my home visits while I was sitting in a courtroom all day?”

  “Right. I’m sure your days are packed.”

  “They didn’t replace Frank when he died,” she said. “Just divvied up all his cases among the rest of us. We’ve been on overwhelm since last May, and winter’s always a crazy time in child protection, ’cause everybody’s all cooped up.”