by Nic Tatano
Stacy led her group to ours and started herding us up the steps of the courthouse toward the front door.
A young male reporter and burly photographer stood their ground right in front of our path and obviously had no intention of moving. The reporter shoved his microphone within inches of Stacy's face as she reached his position. "Miss Heller, how can you possibly put up a defense for these charges?"
That one got Stacy to stop and answer a question.
"You'll see our defense inside," she said. "I'm confident that once the jury has the full story, they'll see the charges are without merit. And considering the amount of news coverage here this morning, the rest of the country will see it as well. My clients have done absolutely nothing wrong. This is simply sour grapes from a man who didn't get the job he wanted."
"What exactly is that full story?" shouted another reporter.
"As they say in television, stay tuned," said Stacy, who then turned and led us up the stairs.
"Nice tease," I whispered in her ear.
We made our way through the doors, with the media horde trailing us like the wake of a ship. A few guards cleared a path for us and kept the outdoor reporters at bay while we headed down the hall to the courtroom.
But the courtroom was no bargain either, as just about every seat was taken by a member of the media. Three cameras were stationed in the room, with a photographer manning each one. At least the place was warm compared to our rehearsal courtroom, between the sunlight pouring through the long windows and the body heat from the packed house.
Stacy led us to our table, an ancient oak number covered with nicks and cigarette burns, which, I was happy to see, was the one closest to the jury. They'd get an up close and personal look at Jillian's skirt and Neely's falling hair. Amanda, Madison, and the other two lawyers took seats directly behind us in the first row. Still photographers jumped in front of our table, snapping pictures as fast as their digital auto-winders would allow.
This was going to be a lot more than fifteen minutes of fame.
Oh, shit, indeed.
* * *
If anyone is smart, they'll edit the jury selection process into a reality show. Just pick any courtroom in any city and you've got built-in entertainment five days a week. And you'd only have to pay your "stars" a few bucks a day.
Here I thought courtrooms were these stately symbols of decorum, and this one didn't disappoint, with marble floors that echoed when you walked, ornate wood railings and antique ceiling fans right out of Inherit the Wind. Despite the trappings, they're a haven for the sophistication challenged. Stacy had told us that juries are made up of people too stupid to get out of jury duty, and from the looks of things she's right.
Half the people in the jury pool looked like they rolled out of bed, didn't bother to comb their hair and had set their clothes dryer on the "add wrinkles" setting. The rest were a mixture of casually dressed people, with a few business types mixed in who acted like they wanted to be anywhere but here. But for many, the prospect of being on national television trumped any inconvenience. You could tell a lot of prospects saw this as a chance for their shot at reality fame, while being paid the whopping sum of, get this, five dollars per day by the Garden State. If the trial goes longer than three days (and this one should), they get a raise to forty bucks. Then they can afford a hot dog from the cart outside.
An elderly female clerk who looked like she didn't even have enough personality to work at the Department of Motor Vehicles (either that, or she died in 1989) called the name of the first prospective juror, Robert Jenks, in a lifeless monotone. Rica leaned over toward me as the man, who had come to court with a sleeveless shirt despite the chilly weather, made his way toward the jury box. The burly guy in his forties smiled for the camera, revealing stained brown teeth, while his bare tattooed shoulders the size of canned hams had so much fur you wondered if he was the New Jersey cousin of Bigfoot.
Rica leaned over toward me. "Syd, do you hear that?" she whispered.
"What?"
"Theme song from Deliverance."
Sadly, this wasn't the gong show, as each lawyer only had three strikes by which a prospective juror could be dismissed without cause. In our case, this meant any woman dressed like a prude, or my mother.
Big Red approached the man. "Mister Jenks, how would you feel if part of your job description required you to sleep with your boss on a regular basis?"
"I'd quit," said the sasquatch, a grin slowly growing across his face. "Harry's not my type."
The courtroom roared as Big Red's face started to match her hair. She shook her head, obviously mad at herself for setting the guy up for such an easy punch line. I was beginning to see Stacy's point about how important it was to phrase things correctly.
"Let me rephrase," said Big Red, trying to shout over the laughter, as the judge, a man with a salt and pepper crew cut and a taut face in his mid-fifties, swung his gavel and called for order. "How would you feel if your boss was a woman?"
The guy turned toward us and nodded at Jillian. "Well, if my boss looked like Strawberry Shortcake over there, hell, I'd work for free."
Steeee—rike one!
Big Red quickly used her first peremptory challenge. The New Jersey sasquatch trudged off, disappointed that he'd have to go back to the forest, while Jillian's freckles went ablaze.
"At least your new nickname goes well with The Snack," whispered Neely.
"Dear God, this is not my day," muttered Jillian, as the cameraman next to the jury box zoomed in on her. She tried her best to keep her chin up and look straight ahead.
Other highlights of the morning bound to make the recap segments of other networks:
—The seventy-year-old woman with a beehive hairdo, long skirt, and blouse buttoned up to her neck whose tightened catcher's mitt face told you she hadn't had sex in decades. (They're selling costumes of my mother? Who knew?) The line that made Stacy use one of her strikes was, "Of course men want to work there. These women paraded into this courtroom like a bunch of wanton harlots." Well, at least it's a step up from trollop.
—The lone businessman in a suit who said, "Hell, I've been getting screwed by my company for years. What's the difference? At least with them I'd enjoy it."
—The young flight attendant who admitted watching our network. "I'm not gonna look this good forever. They've got a lot of good information for women over thirty. Now I know I don't have to rush out and get married. That I can still get a younger man when I'm older."
—The fortyish woman who said CGR had already turned her life around. "That channel gave me the courage to ask a thirty-year-old man out on a date. And when he accepted, I felt young again." When Big Red asked if she had slept with the man, she rolled her eyes and said, with an accent like Rica's, "No, we held hands and played Parcheesi while listening to Perry Como records."
—The hardbodied bike messenger who couldn't stop staring at Rica. "I wouldn't mind having her on my delivery route."
By the lunch recess eight jurors had been seated, four men and four women. Stacy was down to her last strike, and Big Red had already burned all of hers.
So in that respect, we were winning.
* * *
"Remember," said Neely, as we walked back into the courtroom after lunch, "just like we rehearsed."
"I know," said Rica. "We all sit down first after the judge comes back."
The cameras followed us as we walked down the center aisle, over to our table, and sat down.
The bailiff stood up and bellowed, "All rise!"
Everyone in the courtroom stood up as the honorable James Courtney made his way to the bench. "You may be seated," he said.
And then, what happened next may go down in the annals of the American court system as the day Justice dropped her blindfold.
Neely stood in front of her seat as the entire room sat down. Then (here's that slow motion thing again) she calmly removed her glasses with one hand and with the other pulled her hairclip out. She clo
sed her eyes, leaned her head back like she was in a shower, and shook out her long brunette locks. The loose curls gently cascaded to her shoulders (there's really no other way to describe it) and bounced perfectly into place.
An audible gasp from the men filled the room. The judge's jaw dropped as Neely opened her eyes, took her seat and smiled at him.
The judge tried to compose himself as he started to shuffle some papers on the bench. "Uh… Ms. O'Hara, call your first witness," he said.
"We haven't finished jury selection, your honor," said Big Red, obviously annoyed.
"Right," he said, wiping his brow. "I knew that." Stacy bit her lip to keep from joining in the snickers that floated through the courtroom.
At least we know the judge is human.
* * *
Luckily, jury selection finished quickly after lunch and the judge sent everyone home at two-thirty, which gave us some time to get back to the office and do some actual work. Although we hired plenty of good producers who can keep the ship afloat while we're away.
Tomorrow the trial starts for real, and we get to do the run through the media gauntlet all over again. Final total on the jury: six men, six women. I suspect two of the middle-aged women wouldn't mind dating our anchors, while three of the men kept checking us out. But one guy has an obvious crush on Big Red. Hey, buddy, there's a copper top over here who's not a robot!
Speaking of potential in the bedroom, Stacy decided to have our trophy bucks rotate through the courtroom when they were off the clock, and sit directly behind us. Gotta let the women on the jury understand two things, a: what they're missing; and b: why we do what we do.
And of course, let the people watching the court channels see what they need to watch when the court is not in session.
Judge Courtney, meanwhile, kept stealing occasional glances at Neely, while she of course kept smiling at him and batting her eyes. There may be a bit of snow on the judge's roof but there's still fire in that furnace.
Oh, I almost forgot. I got a very interesting call around five this afternoon from a well-known publisher of a well-known men's magazine in which clothing for women is not an option. His slick FM-overnight voice practically oozed through the phone, every word sliding into the next as if it were covered with oil.
Publisher: "I'd like to strike while the iron is hot, Ms. Hack. I'm thinking of a pictorial called The Babes of CGR. If you agree, we'd have just enough time to get you into our Christmas issue. This would be great publicity for your new network. And I'm willing to pay each woman who participates one hundred thousand dollars."
Me: (Playing along.) "A pictorial? Well, that sounds interesting. What sort of pictures do you have in mind?"
Publisher: "Well, they would of course be very tasteful. Perhaps some of your anchors could lie across the set, or do some fun things with television equipment."
Me: (Really playing along.) "What sort of outfits would they be wearing?"
Publisher: "Uh, Ms. Hack, I assumed you knew that we publish nude pictures. But they are very artistic."
He explained some of the "settings" he had in mind. I was almost tempted to do it just to send Mother headfirst into her own vomit, but only if the pictorial carried the title "Trollops of Cable Television." But then the thought of sitting naked on top of a studio camera straddling a teleprompter while giving an oral exam to a microphone seemed too damned uncomfortable.
By seven o'clock we'd caught up on stuff at work, and, exhausted, headed over to my place, had Chinese delivered, and sat down to watch the coverage that had just about filled up my DVR.
Jillian, obviously wanting to see the fallout from the Strawberry Shortcake comment, practically dove for the couch and grabbed the remote just before Neely got it. We had taped three different channels and Jillian cued up one of those giving us wall-to-wall coverage. I downed some kung pao chicken which set my mouth on fire, but it was a good kind of hot, and something I needed after sitting down all day. Smells of garlic and soy sauce filled the air while takeout boxes covered the coffee table. Four fortune cookies taunted me, but I wasn't about to tempt fate.
"Roll it," said Rica, as she settled down on the floor with her plate and speared a wonton with her fork.
Jillian fired the remote and we saw ourselves getting out of the car. "And there are the defendants in the case," said the male commentator. "Those are the executives who run CGR and are accused of discrimination."
"They look like a bunch of fashion models," said the female anchor. "I'm not sure I've seen outfits like that in any trial of this nature before."
"Honey, it's what all the defendants are wearing these days," said Neely. "Would you rather see us in orange jumpsuits and shackles?"
"Really," said Jillian, sipping some egg drop soup. "Do they expect us to dress like the jury?"
Jillian hit the fast forward button until the sasquatch came into view. She hit the play button just as he hung the new nickname on her and the screen offered a high-def view of her blushing face. The audio from the courtroom faded down just as the man was dismissed.
"The woman he referred to as Strawberry Shortcake," said the male commentator, "is Jillian Charles, one of the executive producers at CGR. Before joining the network she was a News Director in Chicago for the network's affiliate there."
"Don't let the innocent face fool you," said the female anchor. "She presided over one of the biggest staff purges the Windy City has ever seen. She's known in broadcasting as one tough cookie."
"So which do you prefer, cookie or shortcake?" I asked. "You're just collecting all sorts of baked goods for your aliases."
"Cupcake is still available," said Neely.
"At least they said I can be tough," said Jillian. "Still doesn't make up for yabba dabba do me, though."
Rica washed down her food and turned to her. "You know, I, for one, would like to see what your game face looks like when you fire someone. It's not like you had a lotta success with the death stare."
Jillian smiled. "Ah, but that's the advantage of looking so innocent. I just seem so sad when I let someone go, they can't possibly get mad at me."
"But you love canning people," said Neely.
"Yeah. Killing them with kindness as I lop off their heads," said Jillian. "All right, enough of this dessert talk, I wanna see the hair drop." She hit the remote and fast forwarded to the point where we re-entered the courtroom. "I hope there's a reaction shot."
"The defendants are coming back," said the female commentator, "just in time, I might say. And Judge Courtney is a stickler for punctuality. You don't want to get on his bad side on the first day of the trial."
"There are just a few more jurors to seat, so jury selection should be wrapped up this afternoon," said her male counterpart. "And here comes the judge now."
We heard the bailiff bark his orders as the judge entered the courtroom. We saw everyone sit down except for Neely. Then we got lucky as the coverage cut to a tight shot of her.
"One of the defendants is not taking her seat," said the male commentator, just as Neely started her routine. "Maybe she is going to address the court—" We heard an audible exhale from the anchor, who didn't say anything else as the hair came to rest. Neely then sat down and the view cut to a wide shot of the room, with every man in it staring at her.
"That's Neely Collins," said the female anchor, picking up the ball. "She's a former reporter from New Orleans who made her way into management and ran the affiliate in Dallas before coming to the new network. She's got a few Emmys under her belt for her work in the field. And apparently a few tricks up her sleeve. If she's looking for attention, she just got it."
The screen then filled with an instant replay of the hair drop. "Some people commented this morning that she looked like a younger version of the former Governor of Alaska," said the male anchor.
"I can't picture Sarah Palin doing that," said his co-anchor. "Well, at least not in court."
"Sonofabitch," said Rica. "It actually worked."
"Aren't you glad I don't have a pixie cut," said Neely.
"You know they'll be waiting for that tomorrow," I said.
"Happy to oblige," said Neely, running her fingers back through her hair.
Eeeeee! Eeeeee! Eeeeee!
That's my cell phone and Rica's early warning system! It works!
Rica lunged across the table and grabbed my phone. "It's your mother! Don't answer that!"
"You think I'm nuts?" I said. "I'd rather talk to a telemarketer about life insurance."
"The voicemail ought to be good," said Jillian, pointing to the phone as she dipped an egg roll in hot mustard. "Play it back on speaker."
"She can't figure that part out," I said, "so she'll call the house phone next. The cell stopped ringing. "In five, four, three, two, one…" I pointed at the answering machine.
Annnnnnnd…. Cue the landline!
"Will she leave a message there?" asked Neely as the phone continued to ring.
"She will when she hears the new recording. I had Harrell do it for me." (Harrell has the sexiest voice on the staff. If he ever gets tired of anchoring, he could make a fortune with a 900 number asking lonely women, "So… what are you wearing?")
"This oughta be good," said Jillian, who muted the television. We all turned and stared in the direction of the answering machine.
The phone rang four times before the machine picked up and Harrell's satin voice filled the room. "You've reached the residence of Sydney Hack. Sydney is… tied up at the moment. Please leave a message and she'll return your call when she's… free."
The girls roared as the machine beeped. "Quiet!" I yelled. "Here it comes."
"Sydney… this is your mother calling. Well…(heavy sigh) I take it from your message that you are now… living in sin."
(At this point Neely jumps up from the couch and makes the sign of the cross over me like the Pope giving a blessing.)
"The women from the club have been calling me all day regarding your attire in the courtroom. I sincerely hope you and the rest of your… girls… will button up tomorrow. I'm really surprised at Jillian, she came from a good home. Don't call me back, I'm taking a pill and going to bed."
